


Toujours Gris

by charlewantsaltitude



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Godfather Sirius Black, Harry is Lord Potter, Inheritance, Manipulative Dumbledore, Multi, Pureblood Culture, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Smart Harry Potter, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:40:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlewantsaltitude/pseuds/charlewantsaltitude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that should never have been interrupted. How would Harry's story have changed, if he had dropped his wand before the Knight Bus could arrive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grim Awakenings

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and world belong to JK Rowling, and were merely borrowed for a little ride.

Harry gave up at Magnolia Road. He had to be far enough away for the moment. His trunk landed with a heavy _thud_ , despite his best efforts to keep quiet. The wand in his hand shook and Harry couldn’t even begin to reign in his breath – there was not enough air in the world to soothe him now.

The anger that drove him to blow up his aunt and leave the Dursleys had dispersed in the face of his consequent predicament. Still, Harry didn’t regret his actions. He liked to think that he felt a little remorse, but he couldn’t deny that he was too pleased over Aunt Marge’s balloon debacle to seriously consider being sorry. Not that it mattered. The memory did nothing to abate the anxiety that was curling in his stomach.

Harry’s eyes settled on his meagre possessions. When he first started Hogwarts, he had been embarrassed with how little he owned, particularly when seeing the hordes of things his dorm mates had brought. Even Ron, who’s family was so notoriously poor in everything but love, had considerably nicer things than he did. He never thought that it could ever be a blessing in disguise. Oh, how the tables have turned.

The contents of his trunk were no mystery to Harry, but he kneeled down and tugged it open anyway. His fingers brushed against the silky, cool feel of his Invisibility cloak. His father’s cloak. It managed to calm Harry down somewhat. It would help him disappear, Harry thought, if only there was somewhere to disappear _to._

With a little stab of pain, Harry regarded his school books. He wouldn’t need them anymore. At this point, they would only serve as deadweight. However, when he traced their spines, Harry couldn’t make himself throw them out. In the end, he decided that he couldn’t very well dump a bunch of magical books in the middle of a muggle street. He may have been stalling the inevitable, but Harry felt that he deserved this small measure of familiarity.

Harry resigned himself to the fact that he would never see the castle again. Sadness swept over him at the thought of the only place in the world he considered home, only to be outshined when Harry realised that he would not be able to seek refuge with his friend’s either. Harry may have dragged his best friends, Hermione and Ron, into terrifying situations, but he would not entangle them in this. It was one thing to break school rules to save Ron’s sister from certain death, and another entirely to become a wanted criminal.

Besides, he didn’t want to see their disappointment. Unbidden, an old memory resurfaced from the past: “ _Now, if you two don’t mind, I’m going to bed, before either of you come up with another clever idea to get us killed. Or worse. EXPELLED!”_ Harry didn’t even want to think about what Mrs Weasley may say to him. No, Harry decided fiercely. He would have to disappear. It was the best for everyone, and he… well. He would just simply have to manage.

Harry looked at his trunk and sighed. He didn’t want to use any more magic, confident that the Ministry would find him instantly if he did. He wasn’t sure how exactly the Trace worked, but Harry wasn’t willing to risk it. He remembered Hagrid and his pink umbrella, and his hands tightened over his own wand. The very thought if it being taken away, or even snapped, send shivers up Harry’s spine. Harry loved Hagrid, but he didn’t want to live like him. Hagrid would probably offer him a place to stay, and Harry couldn’t even imagine working at a groundskeeper at Hogwarts while watching his friends learn magic without him. Briefly, Harry wondered how Oliver Wood would take the news of having to find a new Seeker. He shook the thought off, even if it added another sharp sting to his long list of regrets.

So, he would have to hide. In the muggle world perhaps? Harry’s eyes settled on his pouch of galleons. There wasn’t a lot left in there, and Harry had no way to access the rest of his vault. How would he even go about converting it to Muggle money? He’d never even considered doing that before, so sure he had been that he would stay at Hogwarts forever.

Not for the first time in his life, Harry wished that his parents were still alive. If they had been, he would never have been in this position. The Dursley’s would have been nothing but terrible relatives he saw for Christmas dinners, and Aunt Marge would never have gotten away with saying the things that she did. A surge of anger flew through Harry as he remembered her vile comments. No, Harry was definitely not sorry for what he did. Even if it cost him Hogwarts.

A whimper escaped Harry’s lips before he could stop it. What would his _parents_ think of him now? He was an absolute failure. He got himself expelled from _Hogwarts_. Aside from Hagrid, he didn’t even _know_ anyone who had been kicked out of Hogwarts. Harry would never be a wizard they could be proud of. They died for him, and he was a law-breaking _fugitive._ Despite their comments, he guiltlessly attacked his mother’s _family._

For the first time in his life, Harry felt a minute amount of relief that his parents were dead. At least they couldn’t witness him becoming what Uncle Vernon always treated him to being: a freaky, law-breaking waste of space.

Behind him, a twig snapped. Harry swung around, wand out, and panic clawing at his throat again. _The Ministry? Already? I thought I’d gone far enough…_ Harry squinted at the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything amongst the bushes. After a few tense moments, his shoulders relaxed. Harry was almost ready to turn back to his trunk when he spotted it, his stomach leaping into his throat when he did.

A pair of eyes looked back at him.

Then it moved.

Startling grey eyes emerged from the trees, a mass of shadows moving along with it. Harry was aware that he was not tall by any means, but this thing was _huge._ It easily reached up to his ribcage. Harry’s mind flew to his past encounters with magical creatures – for what else could possibly be this large if wasn’t magic? – from the Acromantula nest in the Forbidden forest to the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. His track record with magical creatures left little left to be desired, and he wasn’t keen on building it any further.

Harry stepped back instinctively, his foot hitting his trunk and bringing him down in an undignified heap. He twisted away from his trunk – all he needed now was to bruise himself over a heap of schoolbooks – and cried out when he, instead, hit the asphalt, hard. His head snapped against the ground and Harry briefly saw stars. Harry pushed the sensation away, and he flailed as he tried to right himself, heart pounding. He had dropped his wand somewhere in the fall, and Harry couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t going to be the Boy-Who-Lived for much longer.

_Sure,_ Harry thought grimly, _I couldn’t be killed by Voldemort – thrice! – but I had no problem going ahead and getting myself chewed into bits by who knows what._

Harry’s gaze flew back up to where he had spotted those ominous grey eyes, only to find that the creature had moved. It had sprung out of the bushes during his fall, and was watching him attentively, ears cocked up and nose in the air. Harry was overcome with relief over it not attacking him straightaway that he barely noticed the way the creature paced on the spot, torn.

The young wizard was only ripped out of the startling realisation that he was very much _alive_ when the creature abruptly sat down, a low whine in its throat. Harry’s breath was coming in short pants by this point. He stared at what he now realised was actually just a _very large_ black dog, that looked at him like he’d grown a second head. It was sniffing the air carefully, eyes trained on Harry as if he expected _him_ to be the one to attack first.

Harry had to concede that, as intimidating as the dog may initially look, it wasn’t in a particularly good shape. Its coat was patchy and tangled, and whatever advantage its height may have given it was taken away by its almost skeletal appearance. It looked like it hadn’t had a good meal in years. Harry may have grown up in a cupboard, feed the scraps of whatever meals he was forced to cook for the Dursleys, but at least he had Hogwarts and the Burrow to tide him over. This dog looked like it hadn’t seen any kindness in a very long time, if ever. Despite its size, Harry had no qualms describing it as frail.

And it was still staring at him.

Harry didn’t move an inch, his eyes never leaving the creature’s. He thought he learned about this once, in primary school, about how to handle wild dogs. If he remembered correctly, he shouldn’t run or it would give chase.

Harry considered his options. He still hadn’t recovered his wand… and he wasn’t dumb. He didn’t have any illusions that he would be able to cast something quickly and strongly enough to immobilise something of that size despite its fragile state. Sure, he’d leave a mark, but Harry wagered that it would’ve chomped off his arm long before he could make any lasting damage. He knew he wasn’t unfit by any means, Oliver Wood made sure of that, but he didn’t think he’d outrun it either if it decided to come after him. In any case, it would have been comforting to know that he at least had _something_ to defend himself with.

Both their heads snapped left as the sound of a window closing came from somewhere. The dog shot upright, it’s ears up and body tense. Somewhere in the back of its throat came a low growl directed in the general direction of where the sound had come. The growl was rough and angry, befitting for the creature’s appearance. Ten seconds ago, it would’ve sounded like Harry’s worst nightmare.

Instead, it reminded him of the _Burrow_.

“Shh”, Harry said, surprising himself. The dog’s head snapped back to him immediately. Harry liked to think it looked a bit mellower as its gaze slid over to him, but he supposed that may just be wishful thinking.

Harry deliberated for a moment, before reminding himself that he was a Gryffindor for a reason. It was _just_ a dog. A very large, and scary looking dog… but a dog nevertheless. Trusting a dog was certainly not going to be the worst thing he did tonight, he decided.

“It’s okay, you’re fine”, Harry began slowly. His voice sounded far too loud in the street. “You’re – eh – you’re probably hungry, aren’t you? I know what that’s like. Uh, don’t eat me though. I’m a bit of a mess at the moment, and I’d rather not get chewed up on top of that.”

The dog’s look was unfathomable. Harry held his breath as several tense moments passed. He began to wonder whether he had lost his mind, when the dog abruptly sat down again, and, to Harry’s immense astonishment, began to wag its tail so slowly that he wondered if it had forgotten how. Harry let his breath out slowly, the tension leaking out of his body with it.

The creatures head was bowed, and it let out another low whine that rattled in Harry’s ribcage. It sparked an odd feeling of recognition, but Harry couldn’t make any sense of it. He let it go. Instead, Harry tentatively patting the asphalt with his hand.

_Do you really think that’s a good idea?_ A part of him asked him incredulously, the voice sounding remarkably like Hermione. No sooner had his hand left the ground, the dog bounded up to him in a manner reminiscent of a puppy than an overgrown dog. Harry snorted at the sight, relief palpable.

The dog pushed its cold but dry nose into Harry’s palm, clearly revelling in the touch. Its fur was rough, stiff through all the filth. The dog was dry, but smelled strongly of seaweed and wet dog. Grains of sand stuck underneath his fingernails as he ran his hand gently through the fur, and it made Harry wonder where on earth it may have swum – the closest beach was _miles_ away. Surely he couldn’t have travelled that far?

With a push of his paws, the dog knocked Harry clean on his back. It left a trail of slobber across Harry’s face while its tail hit against his leg furiously, all wariness and hesitation thrown out the window in favour of this task. Harry’s surprised laughter only spurred the dog on, and it wasn’t until the dog’s weight – and tongue – suddenly disappeared that Harry remembered that he didn’t exactly have the _time_ to be playing with a stray dog at the moment, nor was it exactly appropriate considering the circumstances even if he _did_.

The anxiety Harry forgot quickly reappeared, only to come to a grinding halt when what Harry quickly discovered was his thoroughly drool covered wand dropped onto his chest. He sat up, the wand falling into his lap as he did, and a knot of tension he hadn’t first noticed eased at the sight of the familiar object. Harry grimaced a little, as he wiped the drool away on the edge of his shirt, the action reminding him of that time he accidentally stuck his wand up a troll’s nose. Harry decided that it wouldn’t hurt to pay just a _little_ more attention to it in the future, even if he couldn’t well use it for the time being.

Next to him, the dog was happily watching him, tongue sticking out of its mouth in manner that looked downright _pleased_ over what its done. Against his will, the corners of Harry’s mouth tugged upwards at the sight.

“Thanks”, Harry said, with a pat. From this angle, the dog was towering over him, but after having been so well acquainted with its drool, it just didn’t hold the same effect it would’ve before anymore.

“Unfortunately, this is not the kind of stick you can play with.”

It didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed by that revelation. Harry moved to get up, eyeing his trunk out of the corner of his eye. _What_ _now?_

  Harry brushed the dirt off his jeans and looked around the deserted road. Before he could ponder any further over his lack of plans, the dog let out a cheerful bark.

“Shhh”, Harry whispered automatically, looking up and down the street. “I’m in _hiding_. You’re drawing attention to us.”

The dog looked almost confused for a moment. Then it gave Harry what he thought was a thoroughly unimpressed look. It stood up then, snorted, and shook itself. It padded around Harry, and the young wizard had the strangest impression that it seemed to be _seizing him up_ for a moment, before it looked like it came to an important decision.

Harry shook himself. It was a _dog_. Of course it wasn’t making any decisions. He raised a hand gingerly to his scalp. How hard _did_ he hit his head earlier?

Harry drew out of his thoughts when the dog licked his other hand. The action reminded him of Hedwig, and Harry briefly wondered where the snowy owl had disappeared off to. Unlike everything else, this didn’t worry him. As opposed to himself, Hedwig knew how to take care of herself. She would find him, no matter where he went, and it was that knowledge that steadied him.

The dog licked him again, before firmly latching on to his jeans, and _pulling_. Harry just managed to throw his hands out before he could tip on to his knees, not quite anticipating the strength of the starved dog. It whined lightly, nudging Harry with its too-dry nose in something akin to an apology, before trotting back towards the bushes. It paused, throwing a mildly disgruntled look over its shoulder when it saw that Harry hadn’t immediately followed, but disappeared into the trees anyway.

Harry wavered. Following the dog seemed crazy, but it’s not like he had anywhere to go to at the moment anyway. And he probably _should_ keep to bushes and trees in the first place – walking around the streets at night in a place as ordinary as Little Whining was sure to attract suspicious looks pretty quick. Not to mention the fact that he was lugging around a trunk. Who knew what the Muggles might think.

Harry stood and gathered his things, grunting when he lifted his trunk and dragged it after the dog. Of course he shouldn’t linger in the street, but he also wasn’t quite ready to let go of the eerie looking dog – it _was_ in a rather terrible shape. Harry only had to take a few steps out of the streetlights before he spotted the shadow of the dog curled up at the foot of one of the trees. It rose to its paws when it spotted his arrival…

… And it kept rising after that.

Harry’s trunk fell to the ground with a thunderous bang, but he heard none of it. The stray he had acquainted had transformed – no, Harry corrected himself absentmindedly, Professor McGonagall’s voice echoing faintly in his thoughts, _Transfigured –_ into a ragged man, but it was not this that rooted the young wizard to the spot. It was not the dangerous appearance of the gaunt and filthy man either or the bounty Harry believed was on his head either. It was not even the delicate expression of anguish and something else entirely, something very bright, that fought on the strange man’s face. No, it was a ringing in Harry’s ears, some sort of yelling that he could hear from somewhere that worked beyond mere distance. They were echoes of laughter that played in his ears in the way Aunt Petunia’s shrill words sometimes did. However, where hers inspired blisters, this sound filled him with warmth. Once again, the dog – no, _man_ – reminded Harry very much of the Burrow.

Harry stood and gaped at the gaunt and ragged man. He wore wizard robes, if just barely, considering how tattered they were. Harry supposed that they had been grey or even white at one point, but now they were just a mess of muddy green-ish brown. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t quite come to him, and either way, his throat wasn’t cooperating. In his minds eye, the shadows on the stranger’s face transformed into something a little less strange, a little less dark, and the effect took his breath away.

In the past two years, Harry fought a giant troll, a Basilisk, and defied the murderer of his parents several times. Harry knew all about danger, horror, and death. He knew all about trouble, and this man all but reeked of it. This year, he had decided that there was no way there could be any further hidden surprised lurking for him, and he had happily anticipated a for once _quiet_ year. He should run, the logical part of him decided. He should run very, very far.

Harry did not move.

When the man took a slow step towards him, Harry’s wand remained limply by his side.

~*~

The instance Sirius transfigured out of his animagus form, the tightly coiled bundle of emotions it kept at bay returned to him like a regretful night out. Only, in this instance the remorse stretched back twelve years and encompassed more than just that extra bottle of Firewhiskey and a fall down the stairs. It spanned decades, betrayals, death, Azkaban, and abandonment both by and of him. And now, underneath the watchful eyes of the very person he abandoned, Sirius could feel those emotions clearer than brooding in a dark, damp cell in the middle of nowhere had done, even under the ‘assistance’ of the dementors.

He had to talk to Harry, Sirius had decided the moment he had spied his godson on that street. If there had been a single thing he yearned for more than to commit the murder he had been imprisoned for, then it was Harry James Potter.

Sirius had to remind himself forcefully that he couldn’t very well barrel into the young wizard and never let go, no matter how tempting that notion may be. It sounded impossible, but Harry didn’t know him. _Him._ Sirius Black. The last time Sirius saw him the kid he had had a loving obsession with his fringe and a habit of poking him right between the eyes and mumbling “ _Pa’foo’”._ Sirius had a hard time reconciliating that baby with the small twelve-year-old before him, and the change of it, the _loss_ shown in such an abrupt manner, nearly send him to his knees. He had to remind himself forcibly that he too paid part in this, and he deserved to face his mistakes, when it had cost them both so much.

Sirius took a steadying breath. He told himself that he should be grateful that Harry hadn’t hexed him yet, the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery be damned. It wasn’t everyday the supposed murderer of your parents randomly appeared before you in a bush and Sirius didn’t doubt that Fudge wouldn’t be terribly upset at Harry for whatever may happen after. Not that Sirius would let it get very far – he still had a murder to commit after all.

Yet, hex-free he remained.

There was no way the boy wouldn’t know about the circumstances of his parent’s death. So, Sirius reasoned, he must not recognise him underneath all the filth he wore like a coat. It wouldn’t be too surprising – after all, his last ‘shower’ was several weeks ago and consisted of him swimming from from a hidden, rocky island to shore. He also hadn’t been exactly human at the time.

Sirius knew all this, in some distant, vague way. But when he took his first step towards his godson, all those thoughts darted away like a Snitch.

His godson didn’t look scared, or angry for that matter. He looked more like he was trying to decipher a string of runic letters, only to find he was missing a few lines. _He really doesn’t know who I am._

Sirius wondered, briefly, whether he should take advantage of this. He could, couldn’t he? He could trick the boy, glamour himself. He’d be free to befriend him. He could be part of Harry’s life, in some distant way. He would give anything to just simply be the next door neighbour the boy borrowed sugar from. Sirius yearned for that as much as he yearned for his friends to be alive.

_No,_ Sirius told himself pointedly. He wasn’t just some _boy_ that didn’t realise who he was. This was _James and Lily’s son_. This was his _godson._ And he watched Sirius with those bright green eyes, _Lily’s eyes_ , a tuft of his hair sticking out from the side off his head, and Sirius could swear it was in the exact same angle as _James’s_ bit of hair always was.

Sirius eyes already burned from his own mess of emotions, but when he lastly recognised the way Harry was worrying against his lip – in the exact same manner he did as a baby no less with a tiny, easily missed wrinkle appearing on his cheek from the action – Sirius knew he lost whatever faint plan of caution he initially possessed. As selfish as it was, in that moment, Sirius thought that if all he managed to accomplish by breaking out of Azkaban was to hug his godson for five minutes, then he would happily return to the dementors with a bow.

Sirius didn’t remember walking over. He only remembered reaching for Harry, his fingers brushing the soft, worn fabric on his shoulders almost reverently. Parts of him were afraid to pass straight through and awaken to a damp, dark cell, and when he didn’t, a strangled noise escaped his throat. When Harry didn’t move away, Sirius slowly curled his hand around his shoulder, tears blurring his vision completely. A sob wrecked through his body, and Sirius all but threw himself at his godson.

The warmth of him shocked Sirius to the core, and more so when Harry’s arm moved around him in what could only be instinct. Sirius couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had hugged him. Had it been Marlene? Or James then, after her death? He only vaguely remembered the night he had drunk himself into oblivion, only to wake up and find James in his kitchen, face pale and worn, but determined. James didn’t even let him choke out a _You’re meant to be in hiding!_

Or perhaps it was Lily, who had appeared once James left, telling him in no uncertain terms that when she married James, she sort of married him too, and even though they couldn’t both visit at the same time, and they definitely couldn’t stay, they’d damn well would see him and there was nothing he could do about it to convince them otherwise. Voldemort would just have to take a bloody number, she’d said, and they had laughed about that, too, like they were still eleven and unafraid.

“Pleased to meet you”, Harry quipped, bewildered, and Sirius laughed, the sound startling him. He closed his eyes briefly, his face still buried in the crook of Harry’s neck. After a reluctant moment, Sirius drew back, hands still clasped firmly on his shoulders as he looked at his godson, eyes pained but clear again.

_No,_ Sirius thought to himself. _You’re not that kind of person, and you won’t start now._

“Harry”, he said hoarsely, but he stopped there. What could he possibly say? After all that happened? The best thing Sirius could do for him, the only thing really, was capture the bastard that helped orphan him and then disappear out of his life forever. Sirius deserved no more. _But Harry did_.

So, he settled for the truth, resigned that it will get him recognised. Whatever hex came his way; he will probably deserve it.

“I’m sorry”, he told Harry. “For everything that happened, I am so sorry.”

Harry blinked, uncomprehending, and Sirius struggled with himself. He never expected to have the opportunity to talk to Harry, let alone to be this close. He was so confident in his assumption that he would be hexed on sight, and as extraordinary as the opposite proved to be, Sirius never banked on having to identify himself. Now that he had his godson, he didn’t want to let him go.

Sirius wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say. An explanation perhaps. How would he even have begun? Not that he would have gotten very far, he wagered. Sirius looked him in the eye. In the end, what came out of his mouth was: “Why are you wandering around Little Whining in the middle of the night with your Hogwarts Trunk?”

Harry paled, but Sirius didn’t give either of them a chance to think about that before he spoke again.

“I’m Sirius Black”, he blurted out, then winced. Sirius closed his eyes briefly, but nothing happened. When he opened them again, Harry was squinting at him.

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes widened, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. He stepped back, shaking off Sirius’s hands in the process. They fell limply to his sides, and Sirius breathed in. He braced himself. _Here we go._

“You’re that man on the news. The murderer”, Harry whispered. He took another step back, then frowned, teetering on the spot. “You’re a wizard.”

Sirius frowned right back at him.

“I’m Sirius Black”, he repeated, lost. _What is happening?_

Harry didn’t respond. He only studied him from afar, his expression carrying wariness instead of hostility. He was holding his wand loosely, almost forgotten in his hand.

Sirius looked at him very, very carefully.

“Harry”, he said finally. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“Apparently you know who I am”, Harry said tersely. He lifted his chin a nudge and gave him a defiant look. “You’re that man on the news; they said you were dangerous. Escaped some muggle prison. They called you a murderer”, Harry paused, thoughtful. “They didn’t say what for.”

_Apparently you know who I am_ , Sirius gaped at him. _They didn’t say what for._

“I didn’t escape from a muggle prison”, Sirius said, tone drenched in disbelief. “I escaped from Azkaban.”

Harry recoiled further from that. His eyes roamed Sirius’s frame, understanding growing. Yet his wand remained unmoved.

“That’s impossible”, Harry said uncertainly. “No one’s escaped from Azkaban before.”

Sirius was still studying his godson.

“No one ever told you? Not even – not Dumbledore? Remus?”

Harry’s face was torn into a scowl, his hands pulling at his hair restlessly, the action so reminiscent of James that it would have taken his breath away if the words that followed hadn’t.

“Tell me _what?_ ”, Harry snapped impatiently. “And who is Remus?”

“ _Who is-_ “, Sirius face paled, aghast. Could he be-? No, not Moony too. Not all his friends. He couldn’t bear it. But the transformations – he would have had to have born them alone, for twelve years. How would he have survived, believing Sirius to be the traitor that killed all his friends? Could one even survive that?

Sirius was up in a flash, shaking hands – Sirius wasn’t sure they had ever truly stopped - grasping Harry firmly around the shoulders as he towered over him. Sirius knew he must have looked half-mad with desperation, but Harry only looked at him in mild surprise.

“Remus Lupin”, he demanded. “He’s not- he’s _alive_ , isn’t he? Uncle Moony?

“Uncle Moony-?”

“He must have visited you”, Sirius said, panic-stricken. “They may have given you to the Dursleys over him, but they would have let him see you.” Sirius considered what he knew of Petunia and the prejudice his friend experienced from the wizarding world. It was the first time the thought relaxed him, albeit marginally.

_Bloody Petunia._

“He would’ve written, at the very least”, he tried at last.

“I wouldn’t know”, Harry said bitterly. “The Dursleys kept me from the Wizarding World until Hagrid intervened”, at Sirius’s look, Harry gestured vaguely around them. “I’m only ever here during the summer.”

Sirius’s inner turmoil vanished as suddenly as it appeared. His expression was unfathomable. “Excuse me?”

Harry continued, as if he hadn’t heard him. “Not that it matters now. I can’t go back”, his expression twisted. “I can’t go anywhere. The Ministry expelled me from Hogwarts.”

Sirius studied his godson in a different way, not with the eyes of a desperate fugitive, but the eyes of the godfather he should have been. It was startling. Sirius’s gaze moved from the ratty sneakers, to the haphazardly oversized and threadbare clothing. Harry was only twelve, he wondered, but weren’t twelve year olds taller than this?

Abruptly, Sirius sat down. He felt almost claustrophobic, like walls were pushing in from every direction.

“I don’t – I don’t understand”, Sirius said. His voice was soft, stress punctuation each word.

“I don’t understand _at all._ ”

Harry shifted nervously on the spot, before finally coming to a decision. He sat down, his hand pulling at his hair again. A faraway part of Sirius wondered what Lily would have thought about them both sharing that nervous habit. Would she had been amused? Exasperated? It’s one of the things she had hated about James, once upon a time.

Sirius still remembered the day she had intercepted them on the stairs. She hadn’t as much as glanced anyone else, lest of all James. She had only stopped long enough to grab his arm and yank him along, into an empty classroom.

“Lilyflower”, he had smirked. “I knew you’d cave to my charms eventually”

“Don’t worry”, he had continued. “We’ll break it to James gently.”

She hadn’t even risen to his bait, instead jumping straight into a rant that grew more and more hysterical as she went. By the time he had managed to calm her down, they had missed a class and she had cracked several nearby tables through accidental magic. Her face was red, eyes wide, and Sirius hadn’t had the faintest idea what had happened.

It wasn’t until she looked him straight in the eye and said: “I find James hair pulling adorable”, that he understood.

She had stomped her foot in frustration and Sirius had laughed so hard he cried.

How would she have reacted to the sight of her son? Harry gave him no time to wonder.

“I blew up my aunt”, he said.

Sirius spluttered, “ _You killed Petun- “_

“What”, Harry exclaimed, “no!” He hesitated, then freezed.

“I- “, he stopped, eyes darting back towards the street they’d come from. “Well, I’m not quite sure to be honest.”

“What do you mean, you don’t _know- “_

“She flew out of a window! I didn’t exactly stick around- “

“What do you mean she _flew out of a window_ \- “

“I didn’t mean to! -“

“Harry James Potter- “

“I was _panicking_ \- “

“- stick around to find out if- “

“That’s a lot of judgement from the escaped murderer!”

“I haven’t actually killed anyone yet!”, Sirius shot back.

Harry paused. “Yet?”

They both stared at each other, breathing heavy. Sirius thought that they could have made fantastic use of a calming draught right about now.

“Start from the beginning”, Sirius demanded.

Harry pulled at his hair again, expression grave.

“Aunt Marge was visiting”, Harry explained quietly. “The Dursleys and I… Well, we don’t get along. But, ever since I learned about magic, we have some sort of understanding. They don’t treat me too badly now. I keep out of the way, and they pretend that I don’t exist”, Sirius’s face twisted at that, but he didn’t interrupt. “Aunt Marge is another story entirely. Uncle Vernon and I”, Harry winced. “I made a deal with him. I stick to my cover story for her stay, and he would sign my Hogsmeade permission slip.”

Harry looked away then. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear it. I wasn’t even holding my wand. She was- she was talking about my parents.” Harry shuddered, a flush of anger on his cheeks.

“She said- she called them- “, Harry trailed off and shook his head.

“It’s okay”, Sirius rested his hand on Harry’s arm tentatively. “What happened?”

“She blew up. Like a balloon”, Harry whispered, horrified. “She floated out of the window. The last thing I saw was Uncle Vernon holding on to her ankles.”

Sirius nodded gravely. He was quiet for a moment. He didn’t mean for it to happen, not quite. It build in his chest, easing through the knot of emotions there, and bubbled to the surface. He pressed his lips together tightly, but it did not help, and before long it had bubbled right out of his throat. The sensation felt so foreign to him that he found himself looking at his godson in assistance before he threw his head back in barely smothered laughter. Sirius tried to remind himself that he was a wanted criminal and attracting any kind of attention to himself would be disastrous, but his nerves were already too shot to care.

“I’m sorry”, Sirius choked out, he shook his head, but the laughter kept coming. “ _She floated out of the window_.”

Harry’s eyes tracked Sirius with quiet agitation. He watched as Sirius pressed a hand to his mouth in an attempt to smother the reaction, and a smile flitted across Harry’s face. He relaxed, albeit only a little.

“They’re not going to expel you for accidental magic, Harry”, Sirius said finally, noticing the look. “They would have hardly anyone left to teach!”

Harry didn’t look at all convinced.

“Harry”, Sirius said. He tried to sound reasonable, but his voice was still breathless from laughter. “You’re the Heir of House Potter, the very last one at that. Not to mention, the whole Boy-Who-Lived situation. The Minister of Magic himself can’t touch you unless you let him.”

His eyes danced with mirth at the very thought of Fudge attempting to move against Harry. It did not help his attempts to school his expression.

“I’m not- I’m not expelled?” Harry said slowly. “But the letter- “

“Disregard it”, Sirius advised. “The letters are send out automatically when the Trace is activated, particularly around muggles. Usually your parents would send them a letter to clear things up…”

“The Dursleys would never do that for me”, Harry interrupted dully, but Sirius simply shrugged.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Sirius could almost touch the relief in Harry’s eyes. The smile that he gave him almost gave Sirius heart palpitations.

“Thank you”, Harry said. Sirius began to think that perhaps, things weren’t going that badly after all.

“What about Aunt Marge?”, Harry prompted.

“You did magic around a muggle”, Sirius said. “The Ministry will send someone to- “

Sirius jumped up, panic burning through his veins. Before him, Harry scrambled up to his feet too. He looked around wildly, trying to find Sirius’s sudden source of distress

“What?”, Harry demanded. “What is it?”

“The Ministry”, Sirius whispered. “They’ll send people in to fix your aunt but…”

Sirius looked at him, wide-eyed. “You won’t be there. They’ll be looking for you. Merlin - they’ll be looking for us _both._ ”

“We need to go”, Harry said immediately, turning to his trunk.

Sirius stared at him, eyes widening even further. “We?”

Whatever ease Sirius had brought the boy melted away and Harry faltered.

“Well – I thought -”

“You can’t come with me”, Sirius interrupted. His heart was pounding in his ears.

Harry’s face fell, but when he looked at Sirius, his eyes were determined.

“Why not?”

“You’re twelve!”, Sirius hissed. He gestured around himself. “I’m a murderer!”

“You said it yourself; you haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“I could be lying!”

Sirius looked at him like he was crazy, but Harry’s stance never wavered.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t even know what I was imprisoned for”, Sirius argued.

“Then tell me!”

Sirius shook his head. He really yearned for that calming draught now.

“I would”, Sirius said honestly. “I was going to. But, we don’t have the time now.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to tell me later”, Harry said flippantly. He gave Sirius a look, challenging him to disagree. Sirius recognised that look. _Both_ of his parents had it. He weighed up his options, looking in the direction of the road. How long had they been hiding here? Had anyone heard them? He had heard whispers of Moody’s retirement, but he didn’t doubt that the old man would make an exception for _this._ With a manhunt on the both of them… they did _not_ have time.

However, when Sirius looked back at his godson, he found that he had made his decision on the matter a while ago.

“Harry”, Sirius said finally. The air felt frigid around him, but he knew it was neither a dementor nor the weather.

“I was imprisoned for the murder of twelve muggles, Peter Pettigrew and- and” he closed his eyes briefly before staring straight into the familiar green eyes of his godson, who didn’t know a single thing about who Sirius Black was but offered all of himself anyway. Sirius wanted that desperately. Yet, he knew he wouldn’t just take it until it was given, even if he didn’t think it ever would be.

_I’m not that kind of person_ , Sirius told himself again.

“… and the murder of Lily and James Potter.”


	2. Furry Travel Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew that hiding from the Ministry could be as simple as hailing down a bus?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudos, I'm blown away by the kind reception this story has already received. I hope you enjoy the second chapter. It's rather long, and believe me, I hadn't expected it to take quite as much time to write, but I wanted to explore Harry's head a little before he sat down with Sirius to have The Talk.

Harry’s wand was pointed straight at his heart.

Sirius expected to relax at the sight, but it only coiled his emotions into an even colder and harder ball in his chest. Sirius was no stranger to wands held against him, he had fought in a war after all. Besides, it was not a Black family reunion without a few cold words and raised wands. However, Harry was no Black. He was a _Potter_ , and Sirius had not grasped before how much that difference would hurt.

“Voldemort killed my parents”, Harry spat through his teeth.

“They were in hiding”, Sirius said. “Haven’t you ever wondered how they were _found_?”

“You can’t wonder over what you never knew in the first place.”

Anger pressed against Sirius’s skull. He jumped to all the pureblood lessons he was taught to disguise such things, but his voice dropped low anyway. It was a small change, but Sirius could not help but think that Black’s were never good at hiding their displeasure anyway. His time with the Marauders may have been indescribable, but in the end you can’t change what you are.

_Yes, you can!_ He whispered furiously to himself. If he started believing the lies his family had spewed, all the love the Potter’s have given him would come to naught. That was _not_ something that Sirius was willing to let happen.

“Then tell me, what _do_ you know?”

Harry picked up on the sound immediately, his hand tightening its hold. He didn’t miss a beat though.

“Why should I tell you?”

Sirius liked to think he would have smiled at that, but he couldn’t remember how to. He tried to stay focused, for this was something that he had yearned for for so long, but his mind drifted away from the conversation despite his best efforts.

He had escaped Azkaban with one goal: kill Pettigrew to protect Harry. It had been a pretty good goal, Sirius had decided at the time, and he almost didn’t mind the fact that he was likely to be imprisoned for it – again – afterwards. Facing Harry, however, made the very notion seem almost absurd. The failed attempt on Pettigrew’s life had already cost him. More importantly, seeing Harry now, Sirius could see quite clearly that it had cost him too. This was not the loved one-year-old that Sirius had last seen. For all intents and purposes, he might as well be looking at a mirror of himself at twelve years old, and he shuddered to think about what could have caused that.

Sirius didn’t want to dwell on that, didn’t want to think about it at all. He didn’t want to know how that eternally loved little boy turned to look as wary as he did at twelve, and so he didn’t. There was not a single thing he could do to change the past, no matter how much he wanted to, and no one would let him change anything in this fucked up version of the Voldemort-free future they had always hoped for anyway. All Sirius could settle for was his own guilt, the sweet death of Pettigrew, and the sinking suspicion that when Lily had talked about the evils of her sister Petunia, she had not known the half of it.

Harry’s hand had tightened even more in Sirius’s silence. He was torn between wanting to push the thing away and wanting to teach the kid to change his grip – such a reflex would only hinder him in battle – but it was not his position. Harry may be his godson, but he wasn’t _his_ , and never would be. Sirius wasn’t good for him, and he wasn’t going to entangle another Potter in his life, not any further than he had to.

“Because I have all the answers you ever wanted”, Sirius said finally, forcing himself to focus.

“Why should I believe anything you say?”, Harry countered, unperturbed.

Sirius considered his godson. He wasn’t quite sure what was real anymore. The world was blurry around the edges, but Harry was real, wasn’t he? It seemed impossible, but he must be. Sirius tried to focus on his godson, to anchor himself to him and not drift away again.

Harry’s hands were clenched around his wand so tightly now that his knuckles had turned white. He looked so remarkably innocent, and so remarkably less hostile than Sirius had expected him to be. Instead, he could see that Harry was all but bursting with barely suppressed questions. Sirius could also see that his wand hand was shaking, though Harry’s eyes remained confident. _Strange._

“You tell me”, Sirius said. “You trusted me the moment you saw me.”

The silence that followed weighed so heavily that Sirius couldn’t hear them breathe. Were they breathing? He couldn’t tell. Had he drifted away again?

Sirius might have tried to persuade him otherwise earlier, but he yearned for Harry to stay with him. Not permanently, of course, he wasn’t that selfish. Sirius knew he wasn’t privy to anything of Harry’s life, and yet the circumstances allowed him to steal a little of it anyway. Sirius had no choice, really. Even if he didn’t want to, Harry had to come with him. After what Sirius had learned, he couldn’t possible stay. Unless...

Harry lowered his wand.

“I’m coming with you”, he said firmly, sweeping away Sirius’s fears.

His breath hitched. So he was breathing, then.

Sirius tried to get his mind to work, to gather the right words to articulate his suspicions. Was this the Black family paranoia? It couldn’t be, surely. He hadn’t been a Black for a long time.

“I can understand the Ministry wanting to shelter you from the Wizarding world”, Sirius began quietly. “You are a target, and even if there weren’t rogue Death Eaters at large, your fame would have made it impossible for you to have any semblance of a childhood. I can almost understand their reasoning to send you to that horse-faced woman. If they had to send you to muggles, they might as well give you to your muggle family.”

“What I can’t understand, what I can’t even _begin_ to fathom, is how all of that turned into all of this”, Sirius gestured towards Harry furiously.

“You’re the son – the very last at that – of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter and your clothes are five times your size and look like they’re older than time itself”, Harry would have blushed if it weren’t for the unrestraint anger that was turning Sirius’s voice rougher than it already was.

“You say that you’re running away and you’re carrying along nothing but a _standard_ issue Hogwarts trunk, and a broom that seems to be the fanciest part of you. You’re twelve and your hands are bare of any house rings, let alone your heir ring. Worse still”, he continued further incensed at Harry’s expression. “You don’t seem to even know what that _means!_ ”

Sirius swallowed the rest of his rant and turned to his godson. He breathed in deeply, willing his voice to even out. _Focus on Harry._

“I’m your Godfather”, his voice was so soft that Harry strained to hear it. “And yet, I can’t offer you anything. It’s not safe with me, but somehow, it seems to be the best option you currently have. And believe me, I’m going to find out _precisely_ why that is the case. And then I’m going to fix it. But first… we can’t stay here. I’m amazed that no one has found us yet.”

“Where do you hide from the Ministry of Magic?”, Harry’s expression was ashen. This, it seemed, was the first thing he could latch on to. “A doghouse?”

Sirius blinked at the quip, before the rest of the sentence hit him. He hadn’t even thought that far ahead! How would they even travel anywhere? He was an Animagus, there wasn’t that big of an issue with him hiding himself. But the two of them? Harry was not exactly a discreet travelling companion, and he wasn’t going to make his godson starve in some cave like he would have been willing to do.

To top it all off, Sirius would not be able to try wandless magic in Harry’s presence. He was still too weak to try anyway, but the Trace would pick it up instantly if he did, damming them both. There was no way for either of them to enter a magically populated area to perform any either. Sirius’s Animagus was too conspicuous, particularly in his current starved and filthy state, and Harry, aside from being the Boy-Who-Lived, was also only twelve. Though the Trace would be nullified, other wizards and witches wouldn’t be.

It wasn’t long, however, before an unpleasant feeling overcame Sirius, an instant before the pieces formed and pushed themselves together into something vaguely resembling a plan. He tried to shake the thought away, but the plan only solidified in his mind. Sirius gritted his teeth, debating if he was experiencing mental clarity or whether he had finally, well and truly snapped.

 He never would have dared on his own. He would have rather returned to Azkaban than set foot there again, which really only added to the insanity that was the plan. On top of that, with Harry in tow… It would be perfect. More than that, it would be the safest place in the world for them now, and the irony was not lost on him.

“Somewhere I had hoped to never set foot in again”, Sirius replied grimly. He couldn’t help but feel that he had somehow managed to trade one cell for another. His gaze slid to Harry’s for strength, eyes traveling over the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Alright then”, Sirius said. He thought that he was missing something, that there were other things that were going unsaid, but he was not up for subtleties beyond mere survival. His nerves were shot just knowing that _Harry_ depended on him too.

“Do you have a cloak in that trunk?”

~*~

Harry was sweating.

His mind was swimming in information, from how the Ministry could track people, to how the Trace worked, or better yet, when it failed – and wasn’t _that_ a surprise – and to how exactly Black planned to get them somewhere he deemed the “safest dangerous place”.

Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about Black’s plan. He had had the wild notion that they would have to travel through dark alleys, forests, and hide away from populated areas throughout their escape, not take a magical bus into the middle of London. It felt entirely too exposed, and no clever disguise could change that. Besides, Black had perked up a bit when he discovered that Harry had never heard of, let alone ridden, the _Knight Bus_ , and Harry had an inkling that Black’s definition of a “treat” and an “interesting ride” might vary with his own. It had reminded him, oddly, of Fred and George, and Harry wasn’t sure how to merge the imposing and unstable figure of Black to the cheerful and jovial nature of the twins, particularly now that Black’s mood seemed to have dipped considerably.

Harry glanced at the dog at his side. Black’s ears were up, and Harry could tell that he was covertly sniffing the air, but otherwise he seemed perfectly unruffled. Harry willed himself to follow his lead, and stop fidgeting with the hem of his cloak. He could do little to abate the adrenalin or the sweating though.

His wand hand twitched forward, only to stop. He _really_ wasn’t sure about this plan.

Harry’s cloak felt uncomfortable around his frame, and it smelled awful to boot. Black had wordlessly transfigured back into a dog and taken one of his school cloaks, happily using it as a scratching post. Harry had watched on, horrified, as Black had then proceeded to drag it through the bushes. It didn’t look the least bit like a student cloak anymore, but Harry supposed that had been the whole point. He tried to remind himself that this was _his_ cloak that he’d been wearing for two years now, and there was really no point to be so sensitive about a cloak that he was growing out of anyway, but it did not help. Harry, who had previously never owned anything that belonged only to _him_ , treated his possessions with something akin to reverence, and so the state of his cloak inspired a faint sense of nausea in his stomach that had nothing to do with nerves.

Black nudged his hand with his nose, and Harry steeled himself. _If you can fight a Basilisk,_ Harry told himself sharply, _you can surely manage to hail down a bus._

Without thinking about it any further, Harry threw up his wand arm. He didn’t feel a thing in response, but the instant he finished moving, an ear-splitting bang exploded from the street before him. Next to Harry, the dog winced.

Black had told him what was coming, but the sound still made Harry jump. If his heart hadn’t been pounding before, it certainly was _now_. Harry’s eyes scanned the massive triple-decker bus, from its faded violet colour to the peeling golden letters that once brightly proclaimed _The Knight Bus._

_Well_ , Harry thought to himself with yet another glance at the dog. _It certainly existed_.

No sooner had the thought left him, a scrawny young wizard dressed in a violently purple robe jumped out of the stairs with practiced efficiency. Harry promptly remembered the plan to act as un-Harry Potter like as possible and he tried to draw himself up into something that resembled less of a twelve-year-old hidden by a dirty, inside-out school robe, and more like one of those shady characters he had seen last year at Knockturn Alley. They had decided that Harry probably shouldn’t speak any more than he needed to, and that Black would make a point to be as intimidating as possible to draw attention away from him, but when Harry’s eyes settled on the scrawny conductor, a better idea came to him. The wizard, however, did not as much as glance at him.

“Welcome to the Knight bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your – _Merlin’s beard_ ”, he exclaimed suddenly.

Beside him, Black let out a snort so quiet that Harry almost didn’t hear him. Harry bit his lip. He really shouldn’t find it _funny_ but…

“G-G- _Grim_ ”, the wizard gasped. “That is a- “

 “Baggage”, Harry sharply interrupted the man. In his periphery vision, he saw Black hesitate in whatever it was that he was about to do, but Harry paid it no heed. After all, what was more unlike him than Draco Malfoy? It would be a lot more reasonable to act as the conceited git than rely purely on Black to full fill his intimidation tactic… no matter how successfully it seemed to be going.

So, Harry wondered if his tone was haughty enough. It certainly _sounded_ like Malfoy, but he thought it could use a bit of work. For a wild moment, Harry wondered whether Malfoy practiced it in front of a mirror himself, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop the nervous laughter that tried to escape at the thought.

Meanwhile, the conductor’s eyes flitted from Black to Harry as he gaped at them and Harry made a mental note to ask Hermione, if he ever saw her again, what a Grim was. Judging by the man’s reaction, it couldn’t be good. Harry wavered, his own eyes looking between Black and the conductor. The Animagus had mused earlier that there may be an interesting response to his form, and Harry hadn’t doubted it. There was no denying that he looked menacing, but this seemed to be something else entirely.

Harry never thought he would find himself in a position to think this, but he did anyway. _What would Draco Malfoy do?_

It wasn’t that hard to imagine, really.

“And be careful with it”, Harry sniffed, striding towards the bus with a confidence he did not have. Black followed right beside him, his steps seeming languid in comparison.

“It’s bad enough that your filthy hands have to touch my belongings, you better not damage anything in the process.”

The conductor glanced at the trunk, but quickly focused again on Black when he saw him move. He looked like he was thinking about whether he could outrun the creature to the bus, and Harry saw the way his eye twitched when he decided that he really, really couldn’t. Harry gave him a moment. After all, it wasn’t that long ago when Harry wondered the same thing. When he looked like he was going to try to inch away though, Harry spoke again.

“Get on with it!”, he snapped. He thought his voice didn’t carry quite enough bite, but the conductor’s eyes settled on him regardless. His brow was sweaty and he looked about as anxious as Harry felt. Harry paused by the door, hoping that his fidgeting came over as impatience rather than nervousness. Beside him, Harry spotted Black looking over at the conductor, tongue darting out to lick his mouth slowly. That appeared to be all it took.

“My name is Stan Shunpike”, the wizard said weakly. “And I will be your conductor for this evening.”

He then all but sprinted for the trunk. Harry shot Black a reproachful look – really, that was quite overdone – but the later merely shrugged before jumping into the darkness of the bus. Harry followed him. There was no going back now, and there was no way that Harry was going to leave Black without getting any answers, even if that meant consorting with a not-quite murderer.

There was hardly any light in the bus, but what little he could see showed Harry that there were no seats. Instead, an arrangement of beds was strewn haphazardly around the place. The only light source appeared to be the small candles floating next to every bed, casting wavering shadows on the walls. Harry stopped a few steps into the bus, gaze gliding across the wall beside him, and he found it thoroughly covered in bits of dried wax. Harry thought back to what Black had called an interesting ride, curiosity piqued.

Harry took another step inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He scanned the beds for familiar faces, but was met only with hidden and sometimes snoring bundles of blankets. In the bed next to him, a wizard so small he could have given Professor Flitwick a run for his money, shifted and mumbled unintelligibly under his breath. Harry blinked at the man. He was wearing the most ridiculous neon orange nightgown, with matching nightcap, that Harry had ever seen. Harry could certainly see what Black had meant when he had said that most of the Knight Bus travellers were peculiar in nature.

Black, meanwhile, had curled up on the first empty bed he had seen, his dark form easily sinking into the shadows around them, if it weren’t for his startling grey eyes. Harry didn’t think it was a coincidence that he chose the one right behind the driver seat, for when Stan staggered up the stairs with his trunk a moment later, he gulped. His gaze looked from what Harry assumed was his seat to where Black laid, the later looking immensely pleased with himself. Stan mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like: “Us ‘puffs can be brave too, we can”, before stumbling towards the bed Black picked and pushing the trunk underneath with some manoeuvring to fit the broomstick and cage it was attached to. He did it with more care than necessary, and Harry liked to think that it was a consequence of his superb acting skills, but realistically, it probably had more to do with the fact that Black had lifted his head from where he had rested it on his paws, eyes fastened on Stan.

Harry suspected that Black was enjoying himself immensely.

When the conductor retreated to Harry, he was breathless and his eyes were wide. In them, Harry saw a glimmer of pride, and he had to bite down harshly on his cheek to stop the laughter. Perhaps Black wasn’t the only one that found this entertaining.

“Where to, sir?”

Harry had the weird urge to turn to Stan and say ‘Sirius Black is here’, just to see what the wizard would do. Looking around the tense atmosphere of the bus, it was clear that the escape of Black had left behind a wake of anxiety. Harry found himself eyeing the dog with an altogether different kind of apprehension than Stan had. Where exactly would he be able to take them that could harbour them both?

“King’s Cross”, Harry said, wondering what their destination would entail. Black had not elaborated.

“That will be eleven sickles”, Stan said promptly. “But for thirteen you can grab some hot chocolate and for fifteen a hot water bottle with a toothbrush of any colour.”

Harry would have liked the idea of hot chocolate, but thought better of it when he remembered the wax stains on the walls. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what exactly the ‘interesting ride’ consisted of, but he was sure that he didn’t want to do it while holding a hot beverage. Digging through his pouch, Harry tossed a few coins at Stan in a flourish he had often seen Malfoy do, pleased when he pulled the motion off flawlessly.

Harry approached the bed, sitting precariously on the edge of the generous space the Animagus had left for him. It was only when Black pushed against Harry’s ribs that the boy settled further into the bed. Across from him, he saw Stan do the same on his chair.

“Whatta matter with yer, Stan? Cat got yer tongue?”, the voice of what Harry assumed to be the driver chuckled, but Stan ignored him. The driver appeared to be the only cheerful person in the room, which probably had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t bothered turning around at Harry’s entrance, thus missing the large creature settled next to him. Stan buried his nose into his clipboard in what Harry could only assume was denial.

“Hit it, Ernie”, Stan said instead.

Next to him, Black shuffled around, excited now. He leaned over and pushed Harry’s hand to the railing of the bed. The message was clear: hold on.

It was not a moment too soon. Ernie shifted in the driver’s seat, and before Harry knew what was happening, another deafening crack rang in his ears. He had no time to startle at the noise, for he was thrown back where he sat, the entire bed crashing backwards into another. The resulting sound seemed tame in comparison. When the bus abruptly changed directions, Harry’s hold on the bed was the only thing preventing him from being flung forwards into the windshield. All he could think about was that he was mighty glad that he didn’t take Stan up on the offer of that hot chocolate.

His hood slipped a little, and Harry flailed to adjust it without losing his hold on the bed. Above him, his candle swayed unsteadily. A bit of wax landed on the back of the driver’s seat as they suddenly turned another corner.

_Well, that was the mystery of the wax solved_ , Harry thought. A paw settled itself on his leg warningly, and Harry looked up to find Stan staring at him curiously.

“Quit ogling me like a dim-witted muggle”, Harry scowled, but it sounded rather cheerful. Around him, the bus settled down a little. Alright, Harry supposed, perhaps he had to give Malfoy some credit. Acting like a spoiled brat all the time was a little harder than it looked.

Harry’s eyes were drawn outside and he watched with panic, and then wide-eyed astonishment as the bus headed straight for a tree, only for it to jump out of the way in the last minute. Harry’s astonishment only grew as Ernie appeared to uphold no efforts to drive in any kind of straight line, forcing people, street signs and even houses to leap away before his eyes. When he finally managed to look away enough to notice Stan still staring, Harry decided to clear a little curiosity of his own. Harry had a fairly decent knowledge of staying unseen, owning an invisibility cloak and all. But, if sneaking around for the past two years with it had taught him one thing, then it was that invisibility alone wasn’t always enough and the Knight Bus wasn’t exactly discreet.

“How is it the muggles don’t hear us?”

Stan’s face coloured in surprise at being spoken to, before it darkened with contempt.

“Them?”, he said. He shot a wary glance at Black, and continued when the later didn’t move. “Don’ listen proper, do they? Don’ look at things right either. Nah, them muggles know nuthin’.”

“Yer better oughta wake up Madam Marsh”, Ernie interrupted. “We’re almost at Abergavenny.”

Harry watched as Stan pulled his wand out and waved it around himself, before getting up. Although the bus was still very much a danger zone of flying furniture, Stan didn’t as much as wobble as he navigated through the scene, disappearing upstairs. Harry thought Black watched him go almost mournfully, only to cheer up when Stan reappeared moments later. He just in time to witness Ernie pulling a sharp left that had Harry fall into Black face-first. The animagus yelped when Harry’s glasses dug into his ribs, but he didn’t shove Harry off of him. The later pulled himself up quickly, mumbling an apology that earned him a disgruntled lick on the hand.

Harry thought that he should be at least a little weirded out knowing that it was actually a grown man that was licking his hand, but found that he didn’t mind. He knew that the dog and the man were the same person, but he still found himself considerably more comfortable with the former. In the end, Harry decided that the dog held a certain charm that Black didn’t possess – it didn’t talk. Harry thought that he probably didn’t really mind Sirius Black, but it was hard to think along those lines when the man insisted on announcing things like being responsible for Harry’s parents’ murder without further explanation, even if Harry didn’t believe a word of it.

In the meantime, Stan had returned to his seat unscathed, and pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet. He seemed much more relaxed, despite the dog’s presence, evidently having decided that it wasn’t going to attack him. Remembering the man with the neon orange nightgown and the candle wax, Harry supposed that there was a certain level of tenacity required in this line of business.

Whatever calm Stan had found did not extend to Harry. For when Stan opened the paper, Black’s striking eyes stared back, and Harry almost bit his own tongue off when his mouth snapped shut in shock. Harry darted a glance at the real Black beside him, who had stiffened in turn.

Harry studied the front page curiously. Black looked a lot younger in it, and notably clean. The thick beard was gone and his hair just barely grazed his shoulders. It fell in messy waves that looked fashionably so, rather than the knotted greasy mass Harry had spotted earlier. His face, however, was just as pale as it had been tonight, and although it was fuller, his eyes were just as startling. It was not this that Harry paid attention to though. In the photo, Black looked near hysterical in laughter that twisted his face up and made his eyes bulge out. Tears were streaming down his face as he screamed something that couldn’t be heard. There were arms surrounding him in the edges of the frame; he was being dragged along by people, but he was not struggling. He almost looked every inch of the insane murderer that the paper proclaimed with its bold headlines.

Almost, but not quite.

Harry watched as the frame repeated itself over and over again. No, he decided, Black didn’t look insane. He didn’t even look like a murderer, although it would be easy to say otherwise. Harry thought he looked like a man that was desperate to find something of himself reflected back in the world, only to discover that there was nothing left. In the end, Harry had to look away.

Harry considered the dog instead. _The Sirius Black_ , Harry reminded himself, but the name did not hold the same weight to him that it did to everyone else in the bus. He had said that he hadn’t killed anyone, and Harry wondered what that made him. Innocent? Harry wasn’t sure. The way Ron had talked of Azkaban… Harry didn’t think that they would send anyone there lightly.

Unbidden, Harry’s mind flew to Hagrid. He had spent two months in Azkaban last year, and that only for the pressure of suspicion at the time. How much worse could that pressure have been during the war? Harry dwelled on Hagrid’s easy exile as a groundskeeper for supposedly opening the Chamber of Secrets all those years ago, wand shattered and hidden in a pink umbrella, all because of the word of a single student. Unlike earlier in the night, the memory did not make his stomach clench in fear. Instead, it turned him thoughtful.

Black had said that something was wrong. Sure, the Animagus had talked about the Dursleys at the time, but Harry thought the same could be said for Black, too. With all that Harry had experienced in dealing with the Ministry, he couldn’t help but wonder: if a supposedly innocent man had been imprisoned in Azkaban for who-knows-how-long, _who had put him there?_

Black had called himself his godfather. Harry wasn’t sure what it was, but it sounded _wonderful_. Yet, he had sounded defeated when he said it. Black had said that he couldn’t promise him safety, couldn’t promise him anything really, other than to try and get to the bottom of something Harry didn’t think he quite understood yet. And Harry wanted to understand. He felt his mind working in ways it hadn’t dared before. He had been too afraid to question his life too much, afraid that he would wake up suddenly and find that he had imagined his yearly escapes to Hogwarts. But now he was questioning it, and what he found scared him.

Everything Harry knew about his parent’s death could be condensed into one sentence: they died to protect him.

Harry felt a flash of irritation at his lack of knowledge. Harry could write a lot of things off on growing up in the muggle world. Not knowing what Quidditch was, never having seen magical portraits, the list went on. However, finding out that you didn’t know the story – and by the way Black had looked at him, there most certainly was a story – of how your own parents died was a completely different thing altogether.

Harry had never really thought about it before. They had always been just painfully dead to him. Harry clung to anything of them, but, aside from the incident with the Mirror of Erised, he had never actively sought them out. If anything, it was that lack of concern that bothered him the most. His relatives had not liked him asking questions, but why had that stopped him at Hogwarts? Being afraid was not good enough. He was a _Gryffindor_.

Harry felt like the world around him was spinning, and it had nothing to do with the Knight Bus.

When the bus stopped next, Harry leaned down and tapped his wand against his trunk, feeling a thrill shoot through his core at the magic. It calmed his racing mind instantly. Beside him, Black perked up eyes tracking Harry intently as he levitated first his trunk, then Hedwig’s cage, and finally his broom from beneath the bed. With another wave of his wand, he placed a feather light charm on his belongings, careful with the incantation, before shrinking them. He snatched them up, confused for a moment when he couldn’t find his pockets in the damaged cloak, before remembering that he was wearing it inside out to hide the school crest.

When he looked up, he saw that Black’s eyes had returned to darting around the bus. Frowning, Harry followed his gaze from the floating candles, to the way magic pushed everything away from their path, and even the small fluttering fairy that was hovering by the ceiling, pulling at pieces of wax. His eyes never rested anywhere for too long, always returning to Harry as if to ensure that he had not disappeared, but it was never long before they wandered once more. When the bus took off again, Harry hardly noticed.

It wasn’t until Black’s eyes tracked the man with the horrid nightgown, who had awoken and was flicking his wand around to summon his scattered belongings, that understanding clicked in Harry’s mind.

Black was looking at magic.

Again, Harry remembered that the Animagus had no wand. How much magic had he seen in Azkaban, if any? He had only recently escaped, and Harry had the suspicion that he had travelled straight to him, not that Black had been able to really visit any magical places anyway. Harry’s frown deepened. If it had been taken off of him when he was arrested, it must have been a while. His frown deepened even further still. How long _had_ Black been in Azkaban for anyway? His parents had died in 1981... Surely he couldn’t have spent the past _twelve years_ in Azkaban? That was insane.

Harry remembered the look in Hagrid’s eyes when he returned from Azkaban a few months ago. He’d only stayed for two months, but there had been a terror in his eyes that made Harry stop questioning Ron’s evasiveness on the subject of the prison, not wanting to bring it up to Hagrid. Black _did_ seem a little unhinged, though Harry had to admit that it wasn’t enough to scare him off. Then again, Harry didn’t think he had a particularly healthy regard for danger anyway. He picked at the mud that was drying on his robe. It’s not like he was looking for trouble, it just had a habit of appearing anyway. If anything, Black was the perfect example.

Harry looked up at Stan, to find that he had abandoned the paper in favour of his clipboard.

“Mr Bernard is next”, he said to Ernie, but Harry hardly heard him. He opened his mouth, only to pause, remembering the plan of traveling in a manner as undetected as possible. Or in his case, as un-Harry Potter like as possible.

The next time his bed crashed towards the driver’s seat, instead of ducking out of the way, Harry quickly leaned forwards and snatched the paper away from the conductor. Harry was smug when he anchored himself securely back to the bed without flailing too much, glad for the balance Quidditch had given him.

Beside him, Black’s head had raised up from his paws again, but Harry ignored it. Sirius Black may have all the answers, but Harry couldn’t exactly ask the right questions if he didn’t know anything about the man! And if there was one thing that Harry learned from Hermione, then it was this: if you want information, you _read._

Harry hooked one arm around a bed post, and after a moment’s hesitation, he stuck his feet under Black. His Animagus form was massive, though he also looked like a strong gust of wind could blow him away any second. Still, Black had hardly moved during the journey so far, and that should certainly count for something. Black, in turn, had quickly caught on to Harry’s intentions and stood up, moving with a grace Harry didn’t think anyone could possess without any magic in this bus, to drape himself fully over Harry’s legs. Harry didn’t comment on the claw marks that became evident from where Black laid before, or the way Black clearly dug them back in again.

Harry wondered whether he should repair it - picking at his cloak, Harry thought that Black had a habit of leaving some measure of destruction in his wake. Then again, he looked somewhat pleased with the marks and Harry couldn’t bring himself to erase parts of Black’s presence, having not known he existed until tonight. He had to admit, he was rather attached to the Animagus. He wasn’t afraid of him, and had treated him with a kindness he had needed tonight, before all the rest of it came to light. Harry had also not forgotten how Black had returned his wand earlier, when he could have so easily taken it from him, being wandless himself. No, Harry would indulge him.

Besides, Black seemed to be hell-bent on making them the worst customers in Stan’s career, and Harry was curious to find out what he had planned next. He wondered if this was how Hermione felt: disapproving, but interested.

Marvelling a little at his newfound security despite still all but flying across the bus, Harry flipped open the paper. He made a point to hold it away from him, picking at it with the tips of his fingers, remembering how Malfoy’s father had picked at Ginny’s books, disgusted, despite him literally handling Lord Voldemort’s _diary_ at the same time.

Harry scoured the page, but there was no mention of his parents. When he read it again, more carefully this time, he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in disbelief.

“I know you said that you were imprisoned for killing thirteen people”, Harry said under his breath. Harry could hardly hear himself, but he thought that Black probably could. “But you didn’t mention that you supposedly did it with one curse. I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the name Gilderoy Lockhart?”

Black didn’t respond. He wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he flicked his tail – somehow, he managed to make the action look menacing. _Well, he is a convicted mass-murderer,_ Harry thought almost cheerfully as he looked up and saw Stan flinch in fright, abruptly turning back around from where he had been looking at the pair. Harry wondered what Stan had ever done to inspire the wrath of Black, but the later merely returned to observing the magic around him, eyes seeming to avoid the paper in Harry’s hands.

Harry tossed it carelessly back at Stan when they lurched that way again. It was about as useful as said Gilderoy Lockhart had been in rescuing Ginny.

“Can be rather scary, tha’ Black, huh?”, Stan offered timidly.

Harry pulled up his chin in derision, channelling as much of Malfoy as he could. He didn’t even look into Stan’s direction, but turned away from him to pet Black, an action that made Stan draw back diminutively and Black freeze momentarily.

“There’s nothing scary about a disgraced pureblood”, Harry quoted the paper, hoping it was correct on the little information it had on Black, lest he made a fool of himself. He tried to make his voice as gruff and intimidating as he could. “Pity the line ends with him.”

“The Black family were an crazy bunch in the end. Dark and ruthless, they were”, Stan said, though he couldn’t quite muster the same tone of contempt he had used for Muggles earlier. Instead, his voice carried a note of admiration at odds with his words.

“Powerful though”, he added. “’nd rich. Prolly best he kept away from that family, who knows what damage he could’ve done with that kind of power. Don’ wanna think about that, eh?”

Harry clung on to the little information both the paper and Stan provided on the Black’s. On top of him, the Animagus was following the exchange motionlessly, having forgotten the magic around him.

“Kept away? He was probably in league with them”, he prodded, taking care to keep his voice aloof. He didn’t want Stan to think that he was either interested, nor friendly. He continued patting Black though, who felt tense under his fingers. “They were all with V- You-know-who”

Stan almost waved him away dismissively, before remembering himself.

“I don’ think so, sir”, he sounded faintly like Hermione when she knew something that most people didn’t, though the comparison made Harry feel a little guilty. “My ma was at the sorting of Black. Got Gryffindor, he did. The whole family shunned him for it, she said. She didn’t think he had it in him to turn dark, but I think that once yer a Black, yer always a Black.”

The Animagus rippled in response to that, and Harry could swear that he almost growled, and he quickly placed placating hands on the Animagus’s back.

“How long until we’re there?”, Harry asked quickly, his voice sharp with alarm rather than arrogance, but Stan thankfully seemed to take it as the later.

“Only three stops, sir”, he said.

Harry waited anxiously as another passenger left the bus. Irritation was coming off Black in waves. Perhaps discussing his life with him present hadn’t been the best of ideas. Was he offended? He seemed quite amiable to the mass-murderer label despite them both knowing it wasn’t true, and after twelve years in Azkaban, Harry believed that not much could more could offend him. After all, how could you, when everyone who knew you thought you were evil, insane, or both?

_Well, except for me_ , Harry thought.

_Two stops._

When the bus stopped next, Black lazily moved to his paws, shaking off Harry’s hands gently, giving him pause. Black drew himself up to full height just as Stan glanced at them, and Harry saw the way the conductor’s steps faltered. Harry shot Black a look. He was really taking it a bit too far. In fact, was that a glint of gratification in the Animagus’s eyes? How vengeful can one be? Harry probably didn’t want to know.

Black stretched, and Harry thought that the motion would have been absolutely terrifying if he’d looked healthier, with skin bulging around muscles instead of sagging against his bones. Still, Black’s claws popped out a little, and when he let out a yawn, his lips pulled back to show rows of sharp, healthy teeth that contrasted with the decay of the rest of his body. Before them, Stan swallowed audibly, his head ducking a little further behind his clipboard.

“King’s Cross next”, he said to Ernie in a mix of urgency and relief.

Black settled down on Harry again, looking considerably more pleasant, though he winced when the bus took off once more. Harry almost hit his head on the bedpost that was meant to keep him – relatively – grounded, but he couldn’t bring himself to be bothered by it in the face of what might happen next. He felt the same way that he did when he first stepped out of the Quidditch pitch: anything could happen now.

Harry started when the bus stopped with yet another loud _crack_ , but the motion was lost when his bed crashed against the driver’s seat again. Black jumped off of him, looking thoroughly unruffled from the experience of the Knight Bus, a sentiment Harry was sure his own appearance didn’t reciprocate.

Stan inched around the Animagus and opened the door for them. He looked like he was trying to bury himself into the wall when Black passed by.

“Have a good evening, sir”, Stan said and Harry just managed to remind himself that he had planned to act like a Malfoy.

“Do something useful and learn how to clean”, he drawled in goodbye. He figured insults were the common greetings and parting words of a Malfoy. “This place is repulsive.”

Harry tried to sweep his cloak as dramatically as Snape, but he didn’t think that kind of thing could be imitated as effectively as Malfoy’s attitude, and he was thrown off balance by the lack of heavy luggage he had to drag around. Feeling incredibly free despite being, technically, on the run, Harry stepped out of the bus, shocked momentarily by how bright the _night_ outside was compared to the stuffiness of the Knight Bus. Behind him, a loud crack announced its departure, and Harry turned to the animagus questioningly.

Black was sniffing the air again, and he quickly turned away from King’s Cross, heading towards a street by what Harry thought was random choice rather than familiarity. This area was a lot more populated than the empty street in Little Whining, and Harry felt self-conscious in his tattered robes. It surprised him. He didn’t think he had it in him anymore to be concerned by his appearance, but Harry didn’t need to worry about that for long.

As they winded through one street and then another, their environment began to change. The further they went, the more broken street-lights they passed by, until they found themselves amongst rundown and graffitied houses. As they passed loiterers, it occurred to Harry that the ripped cloak’s purpose was not only to stop people from recognising that he was Harry Potter, but also to stop them from realising that he was only twelve years old. Harry wondered what a Muggles reaction would be if he walked up to them and proclaimed himself the ‘Chosen One’. Whatever it was, the Wizarding World could take note.

In the end, Black hurried ahead of Harry down an alley, only to re-emerge from the shadows in human form.

“What are you doing?”, Harry hissed. “The Ministry- “

“Won’t be here”, Black said confidently. “They avoid Muggles, particularly these kind, and no one knows the location of where we’re headed to anyway. Not _exactly_. I suppose I’m at least a little glad that my _dark and ruthless family_ liked to use their influences in the Ministry to calm their paranoia.”

Harry didn’t even comment on the revelation that they had been traveling to Black’s _home_. He was too overcome with embarrassment.

“About that, I- “

Black waved his attempted apology away, leading them back down another street. This time, he looked far more decisive in his direction.

Harry studied the man. He didn’t seem the steadiest on his feet, and if Harry hadn’t known better, he would have thought that he was a little tipsy. It only made him fit here all the better.

“Oh, it’s all true”, he said carelessly. “The family motto may be _Always Pure_ , but they certainly kept that limited to blood only. There was nothing pure about the things my family has done.” His expression darkened. “I’m not like that though. I would never. I’m Fleamont and Euphemia Potter’s son more than I’ll ever be of my own parents”, he finished firmly.

Harry started at the name. “Fleamont and Euphemia Potter?”

“We’ll get to that”, Black said, eyes darkening further in displeasure.

Harry quietened. He wasn’t sure where his comfort zone lied with this man, and he thought that it changed about as often as the staircases at Hogwarts did. It didn’t help that his moods flipped even quicker than Dudley’s did on the dinner table. Harry knew exactly where he stood with the Dursleys, but this was different. Harry didn’t hate him, and though the logical part of him argued that he probably should hold at least a healthy amount of fear, he couldn’t muster that either. Harry wanted answers from him, but it wasn’t just that. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it though.

To his surprise, it was Black that broke the silence.

“I have to say, that acting you did there was very convincing”, he said. Harry wondered at his rough voice. From Ron’s impression, Dementors were not exactly something someone wanted to communicate with. How many people had Black spoken to in the past twelve years, aside from perhaps dangerous inmates? It couldn’t have been much, judging by his voice. “Are you sure you grew up with muggles?”

Black cringed the moment the words left his mouth, though Harry wasn’t sure what for.

“I had a lot of inspiration to draw from”, Harry said, thinking of Malfoy.

“I know what you mean”, Black agreed.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “By the looks of the conductor, you did a magnificent job at convincing him, too.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over Black’s face, so quickly that Harry wasn’t sure whether he had truly seen it.

“It’s not easy working for the Knight Bus. I wanted to make sure to best that their usual crowd.”

“So what you’re saying is, your plan consisted of making sure that Stan had a bad night?”

“Not just a bad night”, Sirius said. “A _memorable_ bad night. That’s the Emergency Transport for Stranded Witches or Wizards that you just travelled on. If the Ministry gets their head out of the asses for long enough to consider that you ran away from home, instead of, oh I don’t know, being snatched up by the Big Bad Death Eater, then it would be one of the first places they would chose to look for you. I wouldn’t put it past Fudge to wait at the Leaky Cauldron personally. It would certainly improve his reputation after my escape, to be seen with you, not that I feel particularly apologetic about that.”

Harry considered that. “They think you kidnapped me?”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”, Sirius said drily. “They’ll never take into account just how horrid your stranger danger radar is. You followed me into the dark, scary trees – “

“I thought you were a _dog”_ , Harry muttered.

“– and you let me walk right up to you.”

 A light blush graced Harry’s face. “You were _crying_ ”

Black gestured to his ragged appearance. “Look at me”, he said. “You really okay with a stranger crying on you?”

Harry held his tongue. He wasn’t sure how to bring up that he didn’t think that Black was a stranger, not exactly, even though Harry knew next to nothing about him. He hadn’t even known _of_ him until tonight, not in a tangible manner anyhow.

Black stopped and cast another look around them, but found no one. Harry followed his gaze. The street looked considerably better than the street where Black had transfigured back into a human, but it was still visibly run down. It looked miles away from Number 4 Privet Drive, and despite the trash littering the floor, and the foreboding sight of the tall houses before him, Harry couldn’t have been more relieved.

“Wait here”, Black said. “I don’t know what enchantments that hag may have used before she died, and I’d rather not test it out with you in tow. Besides, you’re not a Black by blood, so I’d rather key you into the wards, if I’m able, before you step near.”

Harry nodded dumbly. He had no idea what Black was on about, and he didn’t think it was the appropriate moment to ask, but the anticipation in his stomach grew anyway. He watched as Black approached the row of unwelcoming houses. The paint was peeling from a lot of the doors, and some of the windows were broken. A line of graffiti ran along one side of the wall before coming to an abrupt stop. Harry looked for a street sign: _Grimmauld place._

Black walked towards the space between the doors, and Harry noted with curiosity that they were labelled with an 11 and 13 respectively. Someone had certainly done a terrible job at numbering those. With a little bubble of resentment, Harry wondered whether they were an acquaintance of Dudley.

Harry shook the thought off and watched Black worriedly. He wasn’t going to do any magic, was he? He had no wand, but if he did do anything, the Ministry would find them instantly… Harry took a deep breath. He was sure Black knew what he was doing. He had managed to get them here, after all, and there was still no sign of the Ministry, despite Harry’s decidedly charmed luggage.

When Black looked back at him, he looked torn between resignation and relief. His eyes warmed instantly when he spotted Harry and he wondered when he was going to stop that habit. Not that Harry wasn’t pleasantly surprised that there was someone who revelled in his company, but it did startle him whenever he saw it.

Black held a hand up.

“Five minutes”, he mouthed, and when he turned back to the wall, he abruptly disappeared.

Harry’s heart jumped dropped to his stomach and he looked around wildly.

_Aurors?!_

Harry stepped back, wand raised, but nothing happened. _Five minutes_ , he had said, and Harry willed himself to relax. Surely he had meant this. There was no reason for him to worry. The logic did little for his racing heart.

Harry wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but it felt like eons. He could feel every breath he took with absolute clarity, sure that any second something would jump out at him. Yet, nothing did. It wasn’t until Black reappeared, as suddenly as he had vanished, that Harry relaxed.

“I’m sorry”, Black said warily as he approached. “I did say five minutes though – I had to key you in. That woman left a bunch of nasty blood charms, but nothing else.” Black sighed. “Even in her immense paranoia, she was clearly confident that I would never try to return. It’s an attest to how much I hate this place that it’s only a _small_ consolation that I managed to spite her once again.”

Harry looked at the ordinary looking wall behind them. Was this like the platform, or...?

“I’m not a pureblood”, Harry said nervously, eyeing the space. He had never thought it important before, but all things considered… this might be a good time to mention it.

Black snorted. “Believe me, I know. In all her lack of consideration for her own blood status, your mother worried about what it meant for _you_ endlessly. Something else we will have to talk about.”

He looked around before leaning down to Harry. “I, Sirius Orion Black, welcome you, Harry James Potter, to the residence of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.”

When Black stepped away from him, Harry’s mouth dropped open at the sight he revealed. Behind where Black had stood, the Houses 11 and 13 seemed to move in their own accord, another house growing out of nothing in the space between them. It was identical in all but the fact that it looked even worse than any other house in the street. None of the windows were broken, and it was untouched by Graffiti, but the sight of it sent a jolt through Harry anyway, who at once was thoroughly intimidated.

Nevertheless, Harry followed Black inside, the later looking increasingly less pleased to be here. Harry wondered how this place could be possibly worse than Azkaban, for Black’s jerky movements, so far from the grace he had displayed in his Animagus form, showed clearly which he’d prefer.

_Well_ , Harry thought to himself, _whatever it is, it can’t be worse than Voldemort._

Harry managed to take a single step inside before the screaming began.

“Stains of dishonour!”, something shrieked so loudly that Harry tripped over his own feet and tumbled straight into Black, who, at this point, was looking not that far away from homicidal. He straightened Harry calmly, before turning towards the sound.

“Blood traitors! Filth on my house! Half-bloods and disgraces to the Ancient and – “

Harry watched, speechless, as Black, muttering an impressive string of obscenities under his breath, wandlessly transfigured an Umbrella into a curtain and dumbed it unceremoniously on the portrait of a red-faced woman. Harry only caught a glimpse of the wild black hair, hysterical grey eyes, and the spittle dripping from her mouth as she screamed, but the impression struck him firmly: _now that’s what an insane person looks like_.

The woman stopped when her portrait was covered, and an eerie silence descended on the two of them in the absence of her. Harry looked around him. The house was even more decrepit inside than it was outside, that much was undeniable. The floor was covered with layers of dust so thick that they may as well have been painted on. The wallpaper was falling apart around them, and there was a disgusting, rotting smell in the air that made Harry’s eyes water. Still, beneath it all, Harry could see that it must have once been beautiful. Not in the way the Burrow was, with all its love and kindness, but a stoic kind of beauty that reminded Harry strongly of the Malfoys.

Harry found that there were a lot of thoughts he had tonight that came unexpected. Looking around him, Harry realised that one of them was going to be this: Draco Malfoy wasn’t quite so bad. In comparison to this, anyway. There was a presence in the air that only came with magical households, and this one held none of the warmth that the Burrow did. At least Malfoy, in all his cruelty, had his own twisted moral code, but here Harry could find none. His discomfort, however, paled in comparison to Black’s who was now standing stiffly in the foyer. His eyes seemed to be avoiding everything in here, and so, he looked simply at Harry. His expression was wary.

Looking around the place, Harry hesitated. If this was Black’s home, he didn’t want to insult him, but Harry didn’t think he could. _Somewhere I had hoped to never set foot in again,_ he had said _._

“I think someone missed a spot”, Harry tried, and was pleasantly surprised when he saw Black’s lips quirk, even though he did not smile. It certainly was an improvement to the haunted expression he carried around with him. By this point, Harry wasn’t sure whether he truly wanted to know what made the man look at him like that.

“Welcome to Number 12 Grimmauld Place”, Sirius said scornfully, nose wrinkled. “The residence of the Ancient and Noble House of Black”

Harry looked around him again at that. Harry didn’t know anything about the difference between purebloods and those of Ancient and Noble Houses. He only knew that they were special – if only, for the fact that even someone as entitled as Draco Malfoy wasn’t one.

He was certainly thinking about the Malfoy’s a lot today.

“It’s, uh, certainly ancient”, and Sirius barked out a laugh that sounded hollow, and much more like a repressed, panicked sob.

“James would have skinned me alive for coming here”, Sirius grimaced as they walked passed rows of what Harry discovered with a sickening lurch were House-elf heads, and the source of the revolting smell.

“We had an unspoken agreement that neither of us would go anywhere near this place”, he sighed. “I wonder what he would think of me taking you along on top of that.”

It took Harry a moment to realise that Black was talking about his father. He had never been around anyone who talked about his parents so freely, and Harry revelled in the experience, even as the stench of the place worsened.

“Why?”, Harry’s looks turned apprehensively from the severed heads to the dark hallway ahead of them. “What’s wrong with this place?” _Aside from the obvious._

“It’s not the place”, Sirius said. “It’s the people that lived here. You’ve met one of them.”

“The portrait?”, Harry asked.

“Indeed. If I may offer you my condolences on your introduction to that horrid woman”, Sirius said bitterly. “The late Lady Walpurga Black”

“Your relative?” Harry knew all about that kind of thing.

“Unfortunately, my mother.” Or perhaps he didn’t.

“Are you hungry?” Black asked. “I’m not sure how many preservation spells have lasted in the kitchen, and I don’t really want to find out, but I’m sure that there’s something in there to whip up for you.”

Black disappeared further down the hallway without waiting for a response, to where Harry presumed was the kitchen. He followed, albeit slower, and then he paused entirely. He had spotted a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, from the large door that stood ajar next to him, alarming him immediately.

Harry wasn’t too concerned with the Ministry anymore – Black, although evidently on edge with the house itself, looked completely at ease for an escaped convict, and Harry didn’t think that anyone had set foot in this place in eons. Still, Harry held his wand firmly in his hand, knowing that the only thing he could do to calm his own mind was to investigate. With his free hand, Harry pushed the door open cautiously.

All the caution in the world couldn’t have been enough, for no sooner had Harry pushed the door open a crack further, a mess of fabric flew at him. There was a set of bloodshot eyes, and the glimmer of a knife, and then he was falling.


	3. Where Loyalties Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds out the truth about the night Lily and James Potter died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought that Harry should have been told everything earlier, and I'm excited to move on into Harry's thinking about the events, and his reaction to Sirius Black. It's about time that we get into Dumbledore's manipulations, no? Or perhaps we should introduce another character first, then? Three is hardly a crowd.  
> Thanks for reading!

All the air was knocked out of Harry’s lungs at once, and he struggled blindly against his assailant, his fingers skimming along leathery skin. The little air that he did manage to gather smelled, impossibly, even fouler than before, and he gagged, stilling only when the unmistakable sharpness of a blade grazed his throat.

"Nasty brat, standing there as bold as brass”, the creature screeched at him. For an instance, Harry was sure that Walpurga’s portrait had come to life. “Harry Potter, the boy who stopped the Dark Lord. Friend of Mudbloods and blood-traitors alike!"

Somewhere a door slammed, and then –

“KREACHER!”, Black bellowed, his anger so sharp that even Harry flinched, the knife nicking his throat when he did. His eyes watered as he struggled to breathe.

“STOP! GET OFF HIM!”

Wailing drowned out the footsteps that Harry thought were rushing towards him, and the mass atop him, along with the knife, suddenly withdrew. Harry curled to his side, away from it, one hand clutching his own throat, while the other tried to push himself upright.

“Harry”, he heard Black’s urgent voice. Out of nowhere, he felt himself hauled up from under his arms, and Harry blinked, his vision clearing to find a wide-eyed and even paler Sirius Black hovering before him. “Are you alright?”

Black did not wait for an answer. His hands pulled Harry’s away from his throat, and he examined the small wound there with obvious relief.

“Thank Merlin”, he breathed, shoulders sagging. “For a second- “, but he did not complete the sentence.

It took Harry a minute to gather his footing. It took him another to realise that the wailing consisted of words. He whirled around, searching for the source.

“Mistress”, the house elf repeated over and over. “My poor mistress, oh how the filth has returned to desecrate the Noble and Ancient House of Black, blood-traitors and half-bloods! FILTH!”

“Shut up, Kreacher!”, Black snapped harshly, and his expression turned stricken when the house elf obeyed. Its mouth was still open, face torn in agony, but no sound escaped it. Black took several steps back from it, dragging Harry, still firmly in his grip, along with him. All the anger had drained out of his face. He looked as scared as he had when he realised that the Ministry was looking for them.

“No!”, he said. “I _own_ Kreacher?”

Black’s expression morphed to horrified fascination as it continued to cry for the portrait in silence.

“You’re not dead”, he whispered. “I thought you would have died with her.”

Harry thought Black sounded profoundly disappointed. He couldn’t blame him.

“Who is that?”, Harry coughed out, still mostly focused on easing his protesting lungs. He was angry with himself - he should have been more on guard. Black’s presence had set him at ease, but Harry had no plans to suddenly depend on someone else so much. For a second, Harry wondered what Voldemort would have thought of him dying by the hands of the house elf, and found comfort in the fact that as embarrassed as Harry felt, it would have been worse for Voldemort.

“Kreacher”, Black spat the name. Harry started at the bitterness in his voice. Clearly someone had recovered from the surprise.

“My mother’s house elf. A cruel, twisted thing that adored her, and despised me.” He sneered at the bundle. “I didn’t think it could grow any more insane than it already had been, but here we are. Kreacher”, he addressed the house elf then. “Are you actually following the orders of her _portrait?_ ”

"Oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving him? There, there Mistress", he continued towards the portrait. “Kreacher is here”

Black sighed and Harry looked between the two. He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened, but Black’s presence had started a sort of comradery in Harry, and the attack of the house elf only served to strengthen it. As unstable as Black sometimes seemed, Harry was confident he would never aim to harm him, and the same can most definitely not be said for the house elf. He felt quite comfortable standing next to the convicted mass murderer who still had a firm grip on his arm.

Harry started to understand why McGonagall kept a particularly sharp eye on him.

“If you really hate him, can’t you set him free?”

Black shook his head before he even finished.

“He knows too much”, he said. “About the Black family, about us… He could lead the Ministry straight to us, or even head for the Death Eaters. I still have family alive that he would love to serve, and there’s no saying what he could do if we let him go.”

Harry frowned. “Death eaters still exist? I know not all have been captured but…”, he trailed off, remembering Lucius Malfoy and the diary. What was he saying, of course they still existed! What’s worse, if _Harry_ knew of a Death Eater that could use a new house elf, then how long would it take Kreacher to find one? After all, it had wasted no time trying to kill him. He shuddered to think of the results of combining a homicidal house elf with a Malfoy.

“You can’t let him go”, he agreed finally.

Black just looked at Kreacher, as if willing him to disappear off into whatever hellish hole he had crawled from. And Harry had to admit, it certainly looked like he had emerged from one. He had only seen one house elf in his entire life, Dobby, and it had taken him a while to get over the elf’s appearance. Kreacher was another matter entirely. Where Dobby had large eyes and big, bat-like ears, Kreacher’s eyes were narrow and hidden under deep wrinkles. His ears were scabbed and bleeding in places, and Harry would not have been surprised to discover that he was tearing at them himself. There was white hair growing out of his ears, and he was hunched forward, his skin wrinkly and grey, like nothing Harry had ever seen before.

Harry thought that he seemed like a fitting house elf for this decrepit house, and for Black, but he wasn’t going to say that.

“He’s only trouble for us”, Black said.

“He follows your orders”, Harry offered, then paused as he thought about it. Dobby had followed Malfoy’s orders too. Harry liked to think that he learned quite a bit about life last year, and one of those things was that obedience did not imply loyalty.

Black seemed to understand Harry’s hesitancy, for they shared a look, before turning back to the house elf. It was clear what they had to do.

“Kreacher, follow us”, Black said, looking disgusted with himself for doing so.

~*~

Harry watched Black with interested as he rummaged through the kitchen with old familiarity. Some cupboards he examined carefully, opening tins and sniffing their insides sometimes with delight, and other times with revulsion. Other cupboards he slammed shut instantly, muttering about spiders or doxies. Harry had carefully edged away from him when he did the first time, to the far side of the room. He hadn’t forgotten last year’s doxy incident with Lockhart.

“Sit down”, Black said, when he saw him hover in the corner of the room. “I’m making us hot chocolate. Your grandfather was very insistent that no serious conversation could go without, and this one will warrant buckets of the stuff.”

Harry took the new piece of information curiously. He pulled himself a chair out, disregarding the layers of dust thicker than his own hand. The cloak he wore could hardly get ruined any worse.

“How come you know my grandfather so well?”, he asked.

“I lived with the Potters for a few years”, Black said while he scrubbed furiously at a pair of mugs. He sighed then.

“Kreacher”, he said, his voice no louder than it had been before. The house elf appeared out of thin air from wherever he had been banished to earlier, and bowed mockingly. Black gave him no time to start with his tirade of insults, for he pointed at the mugs he scrubbed with resignation.

“Clean those mugs”, he ordered curtly. “And bring us fresh milk from a _muggle_ house. Don’t disturb them in any way shape or form. And Kreacher”, he said very seriously. “Don’t forget what we discussed.”

Kreacher gave him an angry look that set Black’s shoulders at ease. He took the mugs in his spindly fingers and disappeared without another word.

“Do you think that’s wise?”, Harry couldn’t help but ask. “Letting him outside for something as trivial as chocolate milk?”

Black grabbed the tins he gathered and sat down at the table across from Harry. “By the way he glared at me, the orders I gave him earlier give him absolutely no room for doing anything at all. I covered everything. How is he to betray us when he is forbidden from communicating or being seen by anyone but us?”

Harry nodded reluctantly. He couldn’t argue with that, and he wasn’t sure whether it was his place to. Earlier, Black had spent fifteen minutes listing a string of orders at the glowering house elf, which had rendered him a prisoner in this house alongside them. Harry felt sorry for Kreacher, in a way. He might have warped views of the world, and he tried to kill him, but Harry didn’t want to see him miserable.

They waited in silence for Kreacher’s return. Before long, Harry was fidgeting with a cup of hot chocolate with one hand, and drawing shapes into the dust covered table with the other. In contrast, Black might as well have been made of marble, so still he sat.

“You’re taking this rather well”, Black said when he finished pouring his own cup. “Most people wouldn’t be so calm in the presence of a mass murderer.”

“I suppose not”, Harry agreed. “I didn’t realise you were hiding Voldemort in your pantry.”

Black looked down at his mug. He was worrying his teeth against his bottom lip.

“You read the paper”, he said finally. “You know who they think I am. Why do you - Just, why?”

“I have my reasons”, Harry evaded. The right hand man of the Dark Lord, they had called him, and Harry wasn’t sure how to explain to the man why he didn’t believe it. He wasn’t even sure how to explain it to himself. He was chasing a feeling and an old, faded, photograph. There weren’t any concrete reasons Harry could give him, so he settled for his usual defence.

“With everything that’s happened in the past few years”, Harry said dryly. “I’m _so sorry_ that I’m not exactly as impressed with you as you think I should be.”

 “You sound exactly like your mother”, Black muttered fondly, and it sobered Harry. At once, he realised, that _this was it_. This was the moment that he would finally get some answers in his life, the moment where he could and would _ask_ , where he could make up for a lifetime’s worth of not asking in the first place. The revelation had a dizzying effect on him. The moment felt heavy, and Harry thought that, whatever happened now, he would not come back from it the same.

He wondered whether that was going to be a good thing or not.

“You didn’t kill my parents”, Harry said. “You didn’t kill anyone, I’m sure of that. Then, why were you imprisoned for it?”

“You’re not going to be sitting so calmly with me once you find out”, Black whispered. “I thought you knew… I don’t know how to tell you. It will change everything.”

Harry’s stomach lurched at Black’s tone.

“I’m not going anywhere”, he vowed, but Black only laughed humourlessly, head still bent over the mug. When he finally straightened, Harry saw that his face was determined.

“I’m not that kind of person”, Black said, more to himself than Harry. “I’m not a Black. I never was, and I’m not going to start now. You deserve to know, and I won’t keep it from you.”

Black bunched his sleeves in his hand, agitated.

“They thought I was their secret keeper”, he said. “They thought that I was the spy in the Order.”

“I don’t know what that means”, Harry implored. “What’s a secret keeper? What Order? I only discovered magic two years ago. I don’t know anything about what happened back then.”

“It’s a small mercy”, Black said. “You should never have been kept from the Wizarding world, but I’m glad that you had a childhood free of the war.”

“My parents are dead”, Harry snapped. “I lived with the Dursleys, who despised me for something I didn’t even knew I was. I had no childhood. Just because I didn’t know of the war, didn’t mean that it didn’t affect me.”

Black swallowed. “What did they do?”, he whispered hoarsely.

Harry drew back, shaking his head. “You said it yourself; I deserve to know”, Harry prodded. Now that he was so close to answers, he would not be deterred again from by the Dursleys. “You said they were in hiding. They knew that he was coming for us then. How? What did Voldemort want? I started to suspect, last year. I – Well, I had an enlightening conversation with someone about it.”

“Dumbledore?”

“Voldemort”, Harry deadpanned.

The effect was immediate. Black’s chair flipped underneath him when he jumped up, and he hit his knee against the table so hard in the process that Harry winced for him. He didn’t seem to feel it though.

“What?!”, Black cried. “He _died._ ”

“Not quite”, Harry said quietly. He didn’t realise that there had been any colour left in Black’s face, but he paled further anyway, until he was whiter than the dust on the table. He rounded it then, eyes roaming over Harry’s frame as he darted towards him.

“You saw him?”, Black whispered. He placed one hand on his cheek, and Harry realised that he was checking him for _injuries._ Harry frowned, shaking him off. Even a summer with Mrs Weasley hadn’t accustomed him to someone treating him with such concern.

“I’m fine”, Harry said, hassled. “I spent some time in the hospital wing, but nothing Madam Pomfrey couldn’t cure.” _Well, and Fawkes,_ Harry amended, albeit silently. Black looked like he was going to have an aneurysm as it is, so he didn’t think it was the appropriate moment to bring up the Basilisk. He seemed to calm at the mention of Pomfrey though.

“You’re fine”, Black repeated to himself. “You’re fine.”

With a shuddering breath, Black stepped back and sank to the floor in a cloud of dust. Harry wasn’t sure how to react. Black was trembling all over, and he had put his head in his hands. His breath sounded ragged. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“What happened?”

Harry wanted to tell him, he did. Harry deserved his answers, that was true, but so did Black. This was about an evil wizard most people were too afraid to name, and his return was not something that could be kept secret for an elaborate history lesson. But the lump in Harry’s throat wouldn’t dislodge, and so he spoke the thought he had dreaded since last year instead.

“Tell me”, Harry said. He had intended his voice to sound strong and brave, but to his chagrin it came out sounding small. “That night, the night my parents died… Voldemort was looking for _me_ , wasn’t he?”

Harry struggled with the words that he had held in for so long, not even having dared to voice them to his best friends. He didn’t want their looks of pity, but he didn’t think that Black would pity him. His friends would never understand, but he didn’t doubt that Black would.

“My parents died because of me, didn’t they?”

Black’s head whipped up and he looked up at him with an expression so firm that it reminded Harry instantly of Professor McGonagall, a feat considering how distraught the man still looked.

“Don’t ever think that, Harry, not for a second. Your parents loved you, and they would have given _anything_ to see you through the war. Anything. They died because they loved you, and they wouldn’t change that for the world. _You_ didn’t murder them.”

Black sank further into himself.

“I did. I might not have been there that night, but I made a mistake and it cost them their lives.”

“Tell me about my parents”, Harry urged. “Who were you to them? To me?”

“We were… Your parents were strong people, Harry, and immeasurably kind. They were the kind of people that my family despised, actually – the Potter’s have always been known to reject beliefs of blood purity completely, and your mother had no qualms to all but _flaunt_ her own blood status around Hogwarts. It made her many enemies, particularly in the circles where I was raised.” Black smiled, the first genuine smile Harry had seen him give, though it was tinged in sadness. “They weren’t just my best friends; they were my family.”

“The older we got, the more the conflicts in the Wizarding World grew. At first, Voldemort was a little side-note in the Daily Prophet. He was just some particularly loud pureblood that hid behind a false name and broadcasted pureblood beliefs with little shame to anyone who listened. Not many people paid attention to him, at first.”

Black’s gaze dropped to his hands.

“Then he started to grow followers”, Black whispered. “My cousin, Bellatrix, was one of the first to take his mark, and from there on it was only a matter of time before the rest of my family followed suit. My parents didn’t, though they supported him openly. They thought he had the right idea. My brother- “, Black quietened abruptly. “In the summer before sixth year, I turned up on your grandparents’ doorstop in the middle of the night. They didn’t as much as blink an eye. They sat me down next to James, got me a cup of hot chocolate, and told me in no uncertain terms that they were going to adopt me, even if they had to drag me to the Ministry by my hair.”

Black’s voice turned incredulous at the words, as if it only happened yesterday. Harry could understand what he meant – he too was often as astonished at the care Molly Weasley gave him, despite knowing him so little. She was overbearing, that was certain, and Harry didn’t really appreciate half her intrusions, but her care blindsided him every time. Harry smiled, now knowing that his grandparents had shared that kindness.  

“By our last year in Hogwarts, the Slytherin house was divided completely against the rest of the school. There were many fights… Your mother was attacked in the hallways daily.” Harry’s smile left him immediately. The rivalry between Slytherins and Gryffindors was no small secret, and one could expect a jinx or two here and there, but the thought about being outright _attacked_ at Hogwarts, and the victim being his _mother_ …

“We didn’t even know about it at first, though it must have been happening for a while. She never said a word. There were so many people walking in and out of the Hospital Wing in those times, no one really questioned it when a few extra Slytherins appeared. We had no idea.” Black’s expression turned to a mixture of pride and exasperation.

“Your mother never ended up there herself, not once. She would battle several people at a time, and she always managed to get away. She was a truly amazing witch.”

Harry glowed inwardly at the thought of his mother. “How did you find out?”

 “It was an accident, really. We were planning on pranking the Slytherins and happened to come across a fight. Your father was furious. They had a long history of hating each other, but by that point it had cooled considerably. They were friends. It was the first _real_ fight that they had, and the first time James had genuinely been upset with her. They didn’t talk for two weeks, but from that point onwards, we followed her everywhere.”

“My parents hated each other?”, Harry asked, troubled.

“That’s a long story”, Black said. He looked amused, but it did not last long.

“As the war grew worse, so did the tensions in Hogwarts. We fought against the Slytherins constantly, and were subjected to weekly lectures by Dumbledore on school unity. And then, just before we graduated, he said something else entirely.”

Black stood up with a sigh, the sudden movement startling Harry. He walked back around the table, and reached first for his upturned chair, and then for the mug.

“What did he say?”, Harry pressed.

“He asked us to join the Order of Phoenix”, Black said bitterly. “It was a group of people that Dumbledore personally recruited to fight in the war against Voldemort. We were young, stupid, and had the idealistic notion that we could change the world. We agreed instantly, of course, and believed ourselves heroes.”

He sighed.

“We were good at it. We hardly ever lost a direct battle, and if we did, we always managed to get out alive. In fact, we fought against Voldemort himself several times, and lived to tell of it. Most of our other friends were not as lucky.”

Harry shivered at the tone.

“People were dying all around us…”, Black swallowed. “And then a prophecy came. We didn’t believe in prophecies; we have a long history of _not_ believing in them. It’s not the kind of magic that you can really _use_. However…”

Harry didn’t dare ask, and it took Black another minute before he continued, his eyes glassy and faraway.

“It alluded to you. We weren’t sure, of course, not exactly, but it was between you and another boy. Only Dumbledore gave much stock to it at first, and he too was sceptical.”

“The prophecy”, Harry said in a tone that conveyed just how much he had to force himself to ask. “What was it about?”

Black’s voice was hollow when he spoke. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not.”

Harry clutched his mug tightly in his hand, but he couldn’t feel its warmth. He shivered again.

“He found out”, Black said. “And he chose you.”

It was too much. A loud _crack_ echoed through the room as Harry’s magic lashed out, but neither of them paid any attention to it.

“ _That’s_ why Voldemort was after me?”, he cried. “He killed my parents because of a _prophecy_?”

Tears burned in Harry’s eyes. Black shouldn’t have been imprisoned. _He_ should have been. Another crack followed. His parents should have thrown him away like the Dursleys always threatened to do. No wonder they had always called him a freak – he _was_ one.

“It really was my fault that they died, then”, he whispered hotly. “If it weren’t for me, they’d still be alive.”

“No!”, Black barked. “No”, he repeated quietly.

“When your family went into hiding, only three other people knew of their location. Albus Dumbledore, me, and-”, Sirius swallowed heavily, “Peter Pettigrew.”

“They used an old, and very specific charm to hide themselves with. A modified version of it, actually, hides this very house. It’s called _the_ _Fidelius_. It hides a secret into the soul of a person – the secret keeper, and only they could divulge what was hidden. We used it on their cottage in Godric’s Hollow. Voldemort could be standing right outside your door and he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t even be able to see it.”

Harry thought about the way Grimmauld place had appeared out of nothing earlier, right after Black had invited him in.

“What went wrong?”

Black wiped angrily at his own tears, but they didn’t let up any more than Harry’s did. “Dumbledore wanted to be the secret-keeper, but James and Lily both insisted that it should be me. Lily once told me that, as much as she looked up to him, she didn’t quite trust the man. Either way, it made sense. Dumbledore was too prominent a figure. Before you, he was the prime target of Voldemort.”

“You weren’t the secret-keeper though.”

Black pressed his lips together tightly and jerked his head once.

“I thought that I was too obvious a choice. With Lily and James gone, and Remus off on his own missions, I was left only with Peter. He couldn’t duel a matchstick if it had a wand. I had no doubts that they would capture me eventually, looking for you. I would never have divulged their location, of course, but I thought it would be the ultimate trick on Voldemort, to be played so thoroughly”, Black clenched his fist tightly. “I was an idiot.”

“Remus would have been the natural choice after me, but we had hardly seen him in so long. He was constantly gone on his missions and we thought… We knew there was a spy in the order. James would have rather delivered himself to Voldemort on a silver platter, than to mistrust his friends, but we were at war. I thought… I thought Remus was the spy, and so I implored your parents to make Peter the secret-keeper instead. I refused to hide with them. They had you to worry about, but I thought myself a coward if I hid alongside when I didn’t actually need to. I wanted to fight, to make it safe again for you. However, your parents were petrified with worry that something could happen to me, especially since their disappearance would shift the focus to me. So, they gave into my request.”

“Peter he – he was our best friend. We grew up together, but he-” Black’s gaze dropped to his clenched hands. Harry gripped the table, knowing what he would say, and not wanting to hear it at all.

“He betrayed us to Voldemort”, he whispered. Black’s voice was full of emotion, and the tears were coming rapidly now. “Peter betrayed us”, he wept, and Black pushed one of his hands over his mouth, trying to quench the sobs that threatened to escape.

“He was always so _useless_ ”, Black’s muffled voice came through his hand. “We spent the majority of the time growing up helping him. He was terrible at school, and people tried to bully him when we weren’t looking. He didn’t get half of our jokes, and the most he could do was stand guard while we managed our pranks. He couldn’t even walk a straight line without tripping! And we loved him”, Black cried harder. “We loved him, and he betrayed us all.”

Harry wasn’t sure how long they sat there. He watched Black fall apart and he didn’t know what to say to him. He wanted this to end, he realised suddenly. He didn’t want to know any more. He needed to lie down and not think about his parents dying.

He bit the inside of his own mouth so hard that he drew blood, fearing that if he opened it, he would scream and explode into nothing. Harry didn’t know where he found the calm, but when he finally reached for his mug and found it cold, he charmed both of theirs warm.

“Drink”, Harry said, not having forgotten Black’s comments on his grandfather. To his surprise, he did. Black’s face was glistening, and the tear tracks left lines on his otherwise dirty face. His shoulders shook, and Harry wondered if the man would ever find peace in his life. It surprised him, a little, when he realised that he wanted him to.

 “What happened to him?”

Black needed no further elaboration.

“I was imprisoned for his murder”, he croaked bitterly. “He received an Order of Merlin posthumously for trying to singlehandedly take down the great evil wizard, Sirius Black.”

Harry studied him. Then:

“But you didn’t kill him”

It wasn’t a question. Sirius answered it anyway.

“No”, he said. “I didn’t.”

“Peter knew that I would come after him. I was the only one left alive that knew what he’d done.”

Neither of them mentioned the irony of that.

“I cornered him in a muggle street, the Aurors hot on our heels. Well, my heels to be perfectly accurate. I was angry and grieving, and it made me clumsy. I shouldn’t have gone after him. But Hagrid had taken you, and I had no one else left. I didn’t know where Remus was, all I could think about was what Peter had done. I didn’t even care that Voldemort was reported dead, too. I didn’t care about anything other than killing the bastard for what he’d done, and he took advantage of it. He screamed, for everyone to hear, that I had betrayed Lily and James, and then he blew up the whole street, killing all the muggles left in it. They say that the biggest piece of him that could be found was a finger, but I know better. He cut it off himself, and then transfigured into the rat that he was, and disappeared into a sewer.”

“Everyone thought the evidence was pretty obvious. Dumbledore himself condemned me. I wasn’t even given a trial. One minute I was crying on that street, and the next I was in a cell in Azkaban.”

 Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t think he could. It swirled in his head, all of it, and it was too much.

“You don’t have any reason to trust me”, Black said. “There’s not a single reason why you should even believe me. No one else does, and I don’t have any proof to give to you. Your father was my brother in all but blood, and as much as your mother denied it, I was her favourite Marauder, but that doesn’t mean a thing to you. You used to call me Uncle Pafoo and curl up with my Animagus form, but that was a life time ago. I’m not anything to you, now. I’m just a stranger with a crazy story. But, I need you to trust me anyway. For a little while, at least, until I find out what is happening around us.”

“My parent’s best friend betrayed them”, Harry whispered. Somewhere in between Black’s words, he had found his own again. The was anger simmering behind them, but he didn’t care. “You were blamed for it. You spend twelve years in Azkaban.”

Sirius could only nod.

“And you escaped.”

And again.

“You- you came straight for me?”

Once again.

“They think you’re going to hurt me, don’t they? Finish what Voldemort started. They think you’re the Death Eater that betrayed my parents. It’s why you said they’ll think I was kidnapped.”

His nod was almost imperceptible now, but sharp.

“You would’ve died for us”, Harry said. “Your grand plan was to be the decoy, to be tortured instead of the actual secret keeper.”

“You were- You _are_ my family. I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Harry nodded back. “I have friends like that.”

Harry gripped his mug, and thought of the grandfather he never got to meet.

“I need – “, Harry drew in a shaky breath.

“I think I need a minute”, he managed.

“If I know Kreacher as well as I think I do”, Black said softly. “There’s only one room in this house that he would have bothered cleaning. It’s getting late, and this was… Well, the room is yours if you want it.”

Harry stood up wordlessly, but paused when he noticed the wall behind him. It was cracked.

“Did I-?”

“Don’t worry about that”, Sirius interjected. He tried to sound cheerful, but failed. “Frankly, I think it’s an improvement.”

Uncharacteristically, Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. He only offered an apology that Black waved away, leading him out the door. They climbed up the elaborate but crumbling stairwell that had stood near the door Kreacher had attacked him in. It creaked warningly at them, but held. More stuffed house-elf heads lined the walls. They climbed passed two floors, until the stairs ended. There were only two doors on the landing.

Black hesitated for a moment, before nodding to himself and opening a door marked as ‘Regulus Arcturus Black’.

“As I thought”, Black said, leaning out of the room again instantly, clearly uncomfortable. It occurred to Harry that this must be his briefly mentioned brother’s room. Harry thought that there must be a story there too, but he didn’t want to overstep. He had heard enough things from Sirius Black in one night, without delving further into what Harry guessed was a difficult family history. He had enough to think about with his own.

“It’s a bit green though”, he added.

Harry shook his head, not even looking into the room.

“Thank you”, he said simply.

Neither of them moved.

Black cleared his throat.

“That’s my room over there”, he nodded towards the other door on the landing. There was a giant spider web hanging across it, and Harry looked back at his own door, which glowed with wood polish. It hit him then, what Black had said about Kreacher only cleaning one room.

He frowned. “Are you sure you want me to take this room?”

“Of course”, Black said. He seemed to be struggling with himself, but in the end he settled for this: “Take all the time that you need. The kitchen has seen better days, but I’ll organise something for breakfast. If you need anything, don’t forget that I’ve ordered Kreacher to listen to you too. Just be careful with what you ask him to do – we don’t want him to misconstrue an order.”

Harry’s head hurt, and he could hardly think about the sheer _niceness_ Sirius Black was treating him with, now that he had gathered himself. He was still caught up on everything else about Sirius Black, for the same three words jumped through his head, stuck on repeat.

“ _Prophecy_ – _Betrayed – Godfather_ ”

“Good night, Harry”, Black said quietly, making his way back down the stairs. Harry watched him go, and suddenly, his voice rang across the floor of his own accord.

“Black”, Harry called. The animagus looked back where he stood, half way down the stairs. Something passed across his expression.

“I’m not going anywhere”, Harry said. All the air seemed to leave the man at once, for he stood there, watery astonishment bright on his face. Harry thought that he looked torn between bursting back into tears, or grinning happily.

“Next time you inflate someone”, Black said instead. “Please say inflate, not blow up. It will save me the heart attack.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Next time you get wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban, start off with wrongfully imprisoned, not convicted for my parent’s murder.”

Harry thought that with a little coaxing, the strange expression on the man’s face could be turned into a smile.

“Touché, kid”, Black said, turning away again.

Harry stood at the landing, staring after the man who called himself ‘Uncle Pafoo’ and a stranger in the same sentence. Who promised to die for his family, die for _him,_ and yet blamed himself for his parent’s death. The man who had spend twelve years in Azkaban, and who’s first thought upon escaping wasn’t freedom, but was _Harry._

He thought about Peter Pettigrew, and the love he had still seen in Black’s face when he spoke of the man, even if it was mixed with heartbreak. He thought about his parents in a way he never had before, as people, with lives and friends and hopes and dreams, and not as this dead enigma that gave him a name in the Wizarding world that he never wanted.

Harry stayed on that landing for a long time.


End file.
